


enjoy it before it melts

by heereandqueere



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) RPF, Be More Chill - Ned Vizinni
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Alternate Universe - No Squip, Crush, Flirting, Fluff, Gay, Ice Cream, Love at First Sight, M/M, bemorechill - Freeform, bmc, boyf riends - Freeform, like super hardcore crush, piano!michael, “but i’m straight”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 131,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heereandqueere/pseuds/heereandqueere
Summary: Jeremy stumbles across an ice cream stand one day that’s only open during summer months, and the cute boy that works there flirts with him relentlessly. Obviously, this results in Jeremy coming back every single day for the rest of the summer.





	1. May 26

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi! i wanted to do another l o n g fic and my new, amAZING friend connor gave me this prompt and i literally melted
> 
> s o many opportunities for michael pick up lines ugh

I walk along the sidewalk that spans between the many stores lining downtown Greensburg’s streets, making sure to not step on the cracks; I’m childish and immature when it comes to following old wives’ tales. My focus is split between avoiding the cracks and finding somewhere to eat, because it’s really fucking hot outside and I’m starving. 

School just got out yesterday, and I realized that I have absolutely nothing to do with my summer. At least last summer, I was able to intern at my dad’s office, but this break, I am left without any options in terms of occupying myself. I’ll probably end up playing video games in my room all day and eating cotton candy, because that’s what my life has come to. However, I’ve also made a few friends this year, for once, so maybe I’ll actually make plans and follow through with them this summer. 

“Pretty hot out here,” a voice says from my left. I look up in shock as I realize that I’ve stumbled across an ice cream cart, one of which I’ve never actually seen before. Ice cream sounds perfect right now. I nod and scan the lot, which is empty and seems pretty new. “Is, uh, is this new?” I ask shyly, mentally carding through my memory and trying to remember a... _Tastyland_. 

The boy at the register leans against his hand, shaded by the stand’s awning. “Sure is,” he replies, though quite unenthusiastically. “We’re only open during summer months, unfortunately. Ice cream just isn’t quite appropriate for other weather.”

I peer at the boy, who is sporting an apron and a soft blue hat with a little ice cream cone embroidered on the front. Stepping closer to the stand, I realize that the boy must be about my age, give or take a year. He’s taller than I am, which is strange and unheard of, since I’m one of the tallest people I know. He has dark hair that’s closely shaven on each side, the hair on top of his head a curly heap that’s spilling over the hat’s band. The boy’s ears are pierced, a black earring in each lobe. 

He’s incredibly attractive. 

I catch myself staring and mentally curse at myself. “Sorry,” I mutter awkwardly, blinking. The sun beats against my bare neck, which is probably radiating heat at this point. Jesus, did it get even hotter? 

“What for? I don’t mind cute boys staring at me,” the boy teases, then gestures to the menu in front of him. “What can I get you?” I wish that I could’ve heard the last part, but all I can focus on was the whole “cute boys” thing. I’m cute? I’m a cute boy? “S-Sorry, what did you say?” I stutter, my face getting even warmer. How is this physically possible? 

The vendor smirks and points to the list of ice cream flavors that the stand serves. “What can I get for you? We have ice cream, I can make you a milkshake, whatever you want,” he repeats himself, and I become flustered. I’ve never been great with ordering food or socializing with people in general, but his tone is too warm and inviting to _not_ feel comfortable. I study the menu momentarily, trying to push my thoughts out of my head. _Chocolate. Caramel. Fudge. Vanilla..._

“Could, uh, could I have a vanilla shake? It’s really hot and I love milkshakes,” I say stupidly. Holy shit, I said that so stupidly. What am I, five? 

The boy smiles and nods. “Good choice. Not a vanilla man myself, but if it’s your request, I’ll do my best.” I find myself leaning against the cool metal of the stand. “What would you suggest, then?” I ask, meeting his gaze. The boy shrugs and moves my hand so that he can see the menu. My hand burns from the contact. Oh my God, he touched my hand. 

“Well, I _always_ suggest the fudge milkshake, but I’m a huge sucker for fudge. Only my favorite customers get my legitimate recommendations, by the way. Consider this an honor. If you had a pixie cut and four kids, I’d tell you to get a peach milkshake. Shit’s nasty,” the boy tells me, and I swear I can hear my heart beating in my ears. He just wants me to come back and pay for food, doesn’t he?

Isn’t that just Good Customer Service 101?

I bring my focus back to the menu. “Although I, uh, _appreciate_ your suggestion,” I start, my voice cracking ever so slightly, “I’ll have to stand by my vanilla shake. Can’t go wrong with that, right?” 

The vendor smiles and winks at me. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. You’ll have to come back, though, so that you can try all the other flavors. Not a peach milkshake, though. Let me ring you up,” he replies, tapping away at the register. I let my fingers rest against the edge of the cart, studying the blender to the boy’s right. “That’ll be three dollars and fifty-four cents. I should’ve told you that all of our shakes come in one size, by the way. I’ll make sure to give you a generous pour, though,” he tells me, and I nod as I take my wallet out of my back pocket. 

“Oh, thanks,” I murmur, taking out a five dollar bill. “You can, uh, keep the change.” The boy takes the bill with a flushed and surprised smile. “You’re too sweet. I’ll make sure to make your shake with _extra_ love,” he laughs, placing the bill in the register and closing it. 

He walks over to the blender and starts mixing stuff together. I can only stand and watch in amazement as he pours ice in without even measuring, followed by milk and some sort of powder substance that I can only guess is the vanilla mix. “How long have you worked here for?” I inquire without really thinking, and the boy shrugs, gazing at the blender as he presses the “pulse” button.

“Not sure. It’s literally been a few days. My dad’s friend or something owns this cart, and he needed someone to work the stand. I just quit my job at _Dairy Queen_ , like, a week ago. I know a few things about ice cream, I guess,” he says over the steady purr of the machine. “Not every day I get such kind and pretty customers, though. You want some chocolate in your cup?” 

I blink slowly and process everything he says, melting at every word. I’m a sucker for people who compliment me every other second. 

“Y-Yeah,” I stutter like an idiot, trying to look cool by propping my head up with my hand. “Yes please, I mean.” The boy snickers and grabs a clear plastic cup and a brown bottle, drizzling the inside of the cup with a thick chocolate sauce. “Polite and cute, as I said,” he reiterates, then turns off the blender. I watch as he pours the contents into my cup, winking at me like he’s showing off. Is he showing off? 

He’s showing off. 

The boy sets my cup down along with the blender, popping a lid onto the drink and grabbing a straw from a cup holder by the register. “And that’s how you make a vanilla shake. How is it?” he asks as he slides the milkshake across the metal stand, and it lands smoothly in my outstretched hand. I take a sip as he watches me, trying not to make any weird noises or choke. It’s really hard to get out of the straw. 

“Uh,” I say around the straw, trying again. Finally, the milkshake makes its way to my mouth, and, holy shit, it’s actually the best milkshake I’ve ever tasted. “Fuck, man. This is _good_.”

The boy laughs and folds his hands under his chin, tilting his head back. I get a clear view of his eyes now that the shadow of his hat isn’t covering them. He has such pretty brown eyes. Are they sparkling or am I seeing things? “Good! I’m glad. Hopefully you’ll come back tomorrow or something to get another one. We have a lot to choose from,” he muses, and I nod quickly. 

“Y-Yeah, yes, I’ll come back. Thank you so much,” I say surely, stepping away from the stand and returning to the sidewalk. “Hey, don’t melt your shake before you finish it, hot stuff!” he calls after me, and I’m blushing again. 

Have I stopped blushing since he first started talking to me? 

———

It’s been three hours since I got home, and I still can’t stop thinking about _Tastyland_ boy. Fuck, I don’t even know his name, but he’s all I can think about. I don’t even like boys, to be honest, so why am I actually obsessing over him?

Wait, am I into boys?

Maybe I just like people who flower me with compliments because my self-esteem is practically nonexistent. Maybe the kid was just a huge flirt and I’m overthinking this like I do with everything else. 

I hear a knock at my door and snap out of my endless cycle of thinking. “Yes?” I call, knowing that it can only be one person. 

“Jere, my boy,” my dad sings as he opens my door. “How was your first day out of school? I didn’t hear you come in!” I sigh to myself and roll my eyes a bit. My dad is one of the most irritating people I know, even if his affection and constant need for communication is just a product of his love for me. It gets to be a bit much sometimes, and that’s why I can’t be stuck in the house all summer. I _need_ something to do. 

I shrug nonchalantly and return my attention to the book I’m reading. Well, re-reading. It’s also not really a book, but rather a playwright. “Fine. Walked around. We need milk, by the way.” 

My eyes wander from the page I’m on to my empty milkshake cup, which is still sitting on my nightstand. My dad notices the cup, but doesn’t acknowledge it. “Why didn’t you get milk while you were out? Jeremy, you should really look into getting your permit. It’d be easier to get around if you could drive, y’know,” he reminds me, and I roll my head over to look at him. If he says one more thing about getting a driving permit I may just implode. “Dad, I already told you that it’s pointless. I’ll just get my license when I’m eighteen. Besides, I can walk pretty much anywhere from here. I’ll just... I’ll pick up milk tomorrow.” 

From the doorway, my dad nods and sighs pointedly. “Alright, soldier. Don’t study too hard. It’s summer, and you should enjoy it!” he says before closing the door, and I set the book down in my lap. I rest my head against my bed’s headboard and close my eyes. 

Great, so now I have to get milk tomorrow. Maybe I can find time in my day to make a stop at _Tastyland_ , and maybe I’ll stop thinking about that boy if I see him again and remind myself of my steadfast heterosexuality by passing cute girls at all of the trendy stores downtown. Yeah, that’ll work. That’s my schedule for tomorrow. 

 


	2. May 27

I hop around as I struggle to put my shoe on. Why am I like this? Why can’t I sit down on my bed like a normal person and slide the shoe on like some fucking _Disney_ princess? I’m a hot mess. 

Wait, just a mess.

”No, Christine,” I say into my phone, which is wedged between my shoulder and my ear. “I didn’t catch his name. How do you not know what ice cream place I’m talking about?” 

Christine scoffs on the other end of the line. “Jeremy, you literally just found this place yesterday. Did you know it existed before then? No. So, do you _like_ him?” I grunt irritably and seriously regret telling Christine about my new summer plan, which currently consists of taking the boy up on his offer to try every single flavor they have to offer. That’s a plan, right? “Christine, a few things,” I murmur, finally getting my foot into my shoe. “One, I’m straight. I am a heterosexual male and I like girls. Two, I don’t even know his name, let alone anything about him, so how could I like him? Also, it’s just for the shakes. They’re _so_ good, Christine.” 

Besides, that’s _exactly_ why I’m going to go to _Tastyland_ every fucking day this summer. 

Unconvinced, Christine clicks her tongue at me. “Right... Jeremy, I saw you drooling over the dude who played that velociraptor-training guy in _Jurassic World_. No ‘straight male’ would look at another dude that way, trust me. Also, there are better ice cream options. _Cherry on Top_ is good _and_ super cheap, so I’ll stick to what I know,” she replies, and I pout. 

“I won’t take you to the movies anymore if all you’re gonna do is bully me.” 

She chuckles lightly and I hear a crash in the background. “Oh, heck, gotta go. I think my cat knocked something over... Get the guy’s name, okay? He sounds sweet. Try to flirt back. Bye!” Before I can defend myself and my sexuality, Christine hangs up on me, and I fall back into my bed as I lose my balance. 

I don’t have a crush on Ice Cream Guy. 

———

“Oh, hey! You’re back again! I thought I may have accidentally scared you off or something,” Ice Cream Guy chuckles, running his hand through the hair that’s curling over the side of his hat. I smile softly and shrug. “Not yet. Besides, I’m just back for the next flavor. I’ve made it a personal goal of sorts to, uh, try everything you guys have,” I explain awkwardly, and the boy raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really? That’s quite adventurous of you. Are you just going down the list? Or, sorry, starting over, since vanilla is the fourth flavor?” he asks, and I shrug. 

“Start over, I guess.”

He bites his lip as he watches me “study” the menu again. However, I’m actually watching him watch me, but he probably can’t tell because my curly hair is currently falling in my face. It makes me very uncomfortable and a lot warmer than I’d like to be, but secretly “spying” on Ice Cream Guy is worth the discomfort. “Gotcha,” he finally says. “Chocolate today. Big leap from vanilla, huh?” He punches my order into the register, and the same price from yesterday flashes across the screen.

”Three dollars fifty-four cents is your total, uh...” the boy states, prompting me to tell him my name. 

“Oh, uh, Jeremy. Jeremy Heere,” I rush, and then rub my temple, embarrassed. “Sorry, just Jeremy. Just Jeremy. Don’t know why I added my last name.”

I cover my mistake with an awkward laugh, and the boy does a weird little breathy laugh that I think may be the cutest thing I’ve ever witnessed. “Jeremy Heere. Fitting. I’m Michael. Michael Mell,” he mocks me, winking as he takes my five dollar bill and makes change. I should let him keep the extra change again, but he’ll probably refuse it.

Michael Mell, huh?

“Hey, I don’t come here to get bullied,” I pout, and it seems like I’m just having a repeat of my phone conversation with Christine. 

Wait, I know Ice Cream Guy’s name now. 

Michael chuckles again and empties part of a bag of ice into the blender, followed by milk and a bag of brown powder. “So are you just gonna get milkshakes every day or what?” he asks, just making conversation. I shrug and lean against the cart, just like I did yesterday. “Depends on what the cute vendor recommends, I guess,” I say, not paying attention. When I realize what I said, I turn bright red and incredibly embarrassed. 

“O-Oh my God, did that actually come out of my mouth?” I stammer, sweating. “I’m so-o sorry.” I’m straight, so why am I flirting with a _guy_? 

Michael’s soft chuckling turns into full-out snorting, his laughter deep and full of sincerity. It’s really cute, honestly, but _absolutely_ no homo. “I’m flattered, really,” he replies, turning off the blender and grabbing a cup. He lines it with chocolate sauce before pouring the milkshake in. “Lucky for you, I’m single, so this light flirting is entertaining and might just lead somewhere, if I’m lucky. Besides, a few flirty comments gets you so red that I could make you into a strawberry milkshake. It’s cute,” he eases, snapping a lid onto my drink and handing me a straw. 

He’s single. Wait, he thinks I’m actually flirting with him. “I, uh, I don’t wanna lead you on or anything,” I say quickly, picking up my milkshake. “I’m straight, sorry.” 

Michael scoffs and nods. “Yeah, _me too_. It’s okay, Heere, you can drop the straight act around me, it’s cool. I’d actually cry if you were straight, because you’re actually the gay dream. Coming from a gay dude.”

He looks at me, and I’m too stunned to think straight. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just... I don’t get to flirt with many people so I’m not all that great at it,” Michael adds on as an afterthought, his confidence faltering slightly. That’s a first. 

I blink away my shock and relax slightly. “No! Uh, _no_ , you’re great at flirting. I mean, yeah, um, I’m straight, but you can flirt with me if you want. F-For practice, of course,” I “recover,” and Michael smirks mischievously at me, like he knows something I don’t. “Right. Alright, well, don’t melt your shake before you finish it, hot stuff,” he jokes, his confidence returning. Didn’t he say the same thing yesterday? 

“You too.” 

_Damnit, Jeremy._

I walk away before he can laugh at me, though I know for a fact that he’s definitely laughing as I continue down the sidewalk. I shove a hand in my pocket, realizing that at some point I had put my change in there. I should’ve left it in a tip jar or something. 

As the heat continues beating down on me, I look around the street. I take a sip of my milkshake, which isn’t as thick today. Did Michael change the consistency or something? Is that something you can do? A few girls ahead of me giggle amongst themselves, and I can’t help but think that they’re laughing at me. I have no way to justify my suspicion, but I really can’t help the anxiety that begins to pollute my mind.

I shake my head and slip inside a random store to my left; I don’t want to deal with their quiet chuckling right now. Upon entering the shop, I realize that it’s a tacky thrift shop. Well, I smell it first, see it after. It smells like mothballs in here, and I scrunch up my nose rudely until I realize that the shop owner is glaring at me. She’s a short woman, probably in her eighties, with tacky glasses to match her tacky store. 

“No outside food and drinks, please,” she croaks, and I swallow hard. Oh my God, how embarrassing. I contemplate throwing my drink out just so I don’t look weird coming into the store and then coming right back out. 

However, the thought disappears as soon as I start thinking it, because this chocolate shake is really delicious and I wouldn’t even fathom throwing it out. “Sorry, m-my bad,” I manage to stammer, and with that, I slip back out of the store. I quickly gauge my surroundings, trying to see whether or not anyone looks familiar or is giving me a weird look. So far, no. To both of those things. 

I sigh shakily and take another sip of my milkshake. The sun is hot, but my burning face is hotter. Milk. 

I need milk. 

———

My dad makes an example of setting down a large dish of spaghetti on a potholder in the center of the table, and I grimace. I don’t really care for spaghetti, honestly, but my dad enjoys cooking it, so who am I to take that away from him? 

“ _Bon appétit, mon fils_ ,” he announces, his failure of a French accent ringing against my ears. I wince inwardly, but plaster a fake smile on my face. “Yeah, okay,” I finally say, holding up my plate for a serving. My dad takes his spatula and scoops a generous helping onto my plate, and I know that I won’t be able to eat the entire thing. “How was your day?” he asks as he sinks down into his seat to my right, and I stick my fork into my spaghetti. 

“Fine,” I respond simply, taking a bite. The spaghetti is a little bland, but I don’t complain. I actually have manners. My dad looks at me a bit sadly, but doesn’t probe. “Thanks for getting milk, Jere,” he mentions quietly, twisting his fork into his spaghetti. 

I nod in reply, but don’t add anything else to the conversation. We finish our meal in an awkward silence, even though I can only manage to eat half of my serving before giving up and bringing my plate to the trash can. I discreetly scrape the remaining pasta into the trash, then rinse my plate off. Eating with my dad is never something that I’d willingly choose to do, especially since all it resulted in was arguing and me storming off to my room to finish my meal in there. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad, but we don’t exactly have a perfect relationship. 

Far from it.

I return to my room without saying anything to him, closing the door softly behind me before falling onto my mattress. I’m tired, even though I did absolutely nothing today except for get ice cream, lunch, and pick up milk from the store. Busy day, clearly. 

If the rest of my summer is a repeat of today, I may as well just go back to school. The only interesting part of my day has been talking to _Michael_ , Ice Cream Guy, and to Christine. Maybe I should try to make plans with her, or some of my other new friends. Well, “new.” Signing up for that play all those months ago turned out to be the best thing I could’ve done for myself, and I’m still reaping the benefits. I have made new friends, even with people who once made fun of me. It’s been a journey, but I’m too tired to gush over my new friendships. 

Sorry, “new” friendships.

My mind wanders back to _Tastyland_ yet again, and to my infatuation with Michael. I had told myself that seeing him again would just reassure me of my sexuality because I could watch girls downtown shop and joke around with each other, but it seems like my trip today has done the exact opposite. I’m straight, though, so I should have nothing to worry about. Maybe I just want to be his friend.

Maybe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh also these are gonna be pretty short chapters bc there are gonna be a l o t 
> 
> tbh i could care less about hits and kudos on this fic bc it’s just so fun to write ugh


	3. May 28

I wake up to a soft knocking at my door. God, what time is it? I sit up wearily, my nose stuffy and my eyes swollen shut. Fucking sinuses. 

“Whah?” I choke, sniffling loudly. Of course the person at the door is my dad, and he peeps in quietly. “Hey, Skipper,” he whispers, noticing my sick appearance. “I’m off to work. Feel free to, uh, help yourself to anything in the fridge, or if you want to go out today, just text me.” I scowl at him as well as I’m able to, which isn’t very well since I feel like my head is about to implode and I want to die.

My nod is slow and deliberate as I fall back onto my bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. “M’kay,” is all I say before trying to go back to sleep. However, now that I’m already awake and the sun is streaming through my uncovered window, I probably won’t be able to. I hear the door close and listen to my dad’s footsteps as he returns to the living room. I hear the front door open, lock, and close, and then my dad’s coughing from the front of the house. 

I sigh loudly and roll back over to look at my phone, which is laying face-down on my nightstand. I turn it over and read the time, which is half-past eight. Irritably, I sit up and huff. I had planned on sleeping past ten, but _no_ , my dad had to come in and give me a pointless talk about food and communication. God, I’m so tired. I need some Sudafed. 

With a tired groan, I push my blankets aside, then swing my legs over the side of the bed. Would it look weird if I went to get a milkshake at nine in the morning? Probably. I need to find something to do to occupy myself before I go. 

I shuffle out of my room, phone in hand, into the kitchen, where I locate the box of _Cinnamon Toast Crunch_ that I hide from my dad so that he won’t eat it. He’s notorious for eating my food. I retrieve a bowl from the cabinet and set it on the kitchen island, then grab the new carton of milk that I bought yesterday from the fridge. After I make my cereal and put everything away, I bring it to the living room and fall onto the couch, grabbing the remote before sitting back all the way. _Spongebob_ is probably on.

My phone buzzes from my right, and I look down to see a text from... Rich.

 **Rich:** _Jere, my man. Wyd today??? I’m booored and Jake is out of town. Wanna hang?_

I feel my heart flutter. Someone actually asked me to hang out? My eyes fall to his contact name, which I changed from “ _macho gay, except bi_ ” to eliminate my dad’s possible suspicion had he seen it. I’ve never been particularly close to Rich, but he’s pretty funny and interesting. I rest my bowl on my leg, then pick up my phone to type out a reply. 

 **Jeremy** _**:** Uh, sure. I have something to do later but I guess you can come with me. Do you like ice cream? _

My texting style is formal and always grammatically correct, which scares people a bit and means that I don’t get to text people often. However, some of my friends don’t mind, but people usually call me instead of text when they want to talk. 

I set my phone down and take a bite of cereal, then look back up at the television. Yeah, _Spongebob_ is on. I love cartoons, especially ones that really take me back to my childhood. My phone buzzes just as I get comfortable and involved with the episode, to my dismay. I grunt and pick up my phone. 

 **Rich:** _DUH. I’ll see u at 10. Your house._

Setting my phone down, I bring my attention back to the television. Would it be weird if I brought Rich with me? Michael would probably think I talked about him or something. He’d probably stop flirting with me and he’d probably flirt with Rich instead. Besides, Rich is a lot more attractive than I am, _and_ he’s bisexual. I feel a pang if jealousy tighten my chest, but then stop. 

Wait, why would I be jealous of Michael flirting with Rich? I’m straight. I don’t even like Michael like that. 

———

“Tho, where are we going?” Rich asks as we walk down my driveway, the summer heat already making my head spin. I look around my street and step onto the sidewalk, still avoiding the cracks. “Ice cream place downtown. We can go back to my house and play video games or something after, if you want,” I suggest, but Rich shakes his head. “I have to be back at my houthe by twelve becauthe my mom ith making my brother and I go with her to vithit my grandpa. We have to pack apparently,” he explains apologetically, and I can’t help the fact that I feel like he’s lying to get out of hanging out with me. 

Am I really that intolerable? Is that why my summer is doomed to be miserable, because I’m boring and people don’t like hanging out with me? Upon seeing my worried face, Rich puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, really. You can come help me pack if you want to, but we’re actually going on a trip. I can’t make thith thtuff up,” he consoles, and I take a breath. 

Overreacting again. 

“Alright,” I decide, continuing down the sidewalk. “What’re you doing this summer?” I’ve never been great with small talk, but the only way to get better is to practice, I guess. 

Rich takes his hand off of my shoulder and shoved both of his hands into his pockets. “Hm,” he says thoughtfully, looking ahead. “Probably vithit family, hang out with Jake, practithe thkating. Thame ath uthual.” I’ll admit that it can be pretty difficult to understand Rich and his lisp from time to time, but I do my best. I know how embarrassing the speech impediment can be, even if I only suffered from a lisp the first week of having my retainer after three years of braces. 

“That sounds fun,” I comment, hoping that I sort of understood what he says. I look sideways at him, and he nods. “Yeah, thure. What about you? You thaid you ‘had’ to get ithe cream thith morning, tho ith there anything you have in mind?” he replies, and I feel my heart skip a beat. 

My lack of a summer plan makes me feel incredibly insecure all of a sudden. 

“Yeah,” I admit slowly, scratching my neck. “Sure, uh, I found this ice cream place down town, and it’s really good. They have a lot of flavors, and, well, it sounds stupid now that I’m saying it out loud, but I’m making it my summer goal to try all of them.”

Rich snorts loudly as we stop at a crosswalk. “Really?” he asks, crossing his arms. “That’th pretty cool.” He’s lying. He definitely feels bad for me, I can tell. “Not really, but it’s something,” I respond quietly, and we cross the road together. I live just outside of the shopping complex in downtown Greensburg, which is convenient. It also means that I’ll get in, like, ten minutes of exercise every day on my way to drink a milkshake that probably exceeds my suggested daily calorie intake. The rest of the walk is pretty quiet, besides the occasional comment from Rich and my reluctant nodding.

This is why people don’t like hanging out with me. 

I’m grateful as we approach _Tastyland_ , which actually has a person in line today. Every other day I’ve been here, I’ve been the only one. Good for _Tastyland_. 

Rich and I stand behind the man, who is jogging in place and has a fanny pack buckled tightly around his waist. “So you _don’t_ have protein-rich options?” he asks Michael, out of breath. I see Michael roll his eyes and clasp his hands together, a very fake smile entertaining his face. 

“Sir, again, we’re an _ice cream shop_. You may want to visit _GNC_  or something. I’m sorry that we can’t help you,” he explains, and the man scoffs. He turns around, gives Rich and I an irritated glare, and runs around us, back onto the sidewalk. I watch as Michael huffs irritably, looking down at his nail and picking at a hangnail.

Wait, are his nails painted?

Michael looks up, his eyes wandering to my face. He seems to glow up, actually, as a real smile returns to his face. “Jeremy Heere, I’ll be damned,” he says loudly, leaning against his stand. “Back for more? You’re early today.” 

Rich does his best not to laugh at me, bringing a hand to his mouth. Michael looks from me down to Rich, his smile never faltering. “And you brought a friend? You’re good for business. Maybe you should start working here,” he muses, eyes meeting mine again. I’m at a loss for words, so maybe it’s a good thing that I brought Rich today. 

“I’m Rich. Jeremy thaid that you have thome great ithe cream,” Rich introduces himself, running his hand through his hair. I open my mouth to say something, but the fact that Rich is here makes me a bit... unable to say anything. 

Michael nods, but continues looking at me. He’s searching my eyes, I think. For what, I’m not really sure. “Nice to meet you, Rich. Did Jeremy also tell you that he’s, like, my favorite customer?” Michael says, finally tearing his gaze off of me and looking at Rich. I watch as Rich shifts his weight to his other foot. “No, but he altho didn’t tell me that the dude who workth here hath a major cruth on him, either,” Rich jokes, smirking. 

I can’t breathe. 

Michael chuckles and shrugs. “Hey, guilty as charged,” he replies, and I pray that he’s just messing around. _I’m straight. I’m straight. I’m straight._ “What can I get you, Rich? I’m guessing that Jeremy is going to have the caramel milkshake today, since he had chocolate yesterday. Did he tell you about his summer goals?” 

Rich nods and leans over in front of me to look at the menu. “Yeah, he did. Funny, to be honeth-t, but I admire hith pertheveranthe. I think I’ll have a thcoop of butter pecan ithe cream,” he decides, and Michael crosses his arms as he leans against the stand. “Good choice. Are you two together?” 

I still can’t breathe, but manage to shake my head quickly. “N-No, he has a boyfriend,” I rush breathlessly, and Rich snickers. “Jeremy’th ‘thtraight,’ dude. Didn’t he tell you that? You theem to do a lot of talking with him anywayth,” he muses, and Michael adjusts his glasses. Was he wearing glasses yesterday? 

“Many times, yeah. But, like, I meant are you two _paying_ together? Because Jeremy deserves a free milkshake today, I think. He’s brightened both my mood and my paycheck, so it’s the least I can do,” Michael corrects himself, and I blush profusely. It’s even hotter than it was yesterday. Rich shrugs and reaches into his back pocket, waving his wallet. “I can pay for mythelf, even though I want you to know that I’m highly offended that you think Jeremy’th cuter than I am.” Michael laughs and taps away at the register. “Jeremy is _very_ cute, correction. Plus, I’m biased. Sorry, Rich,” he apologizes, feigning a pouty face.

Rich laughs and looks at the price on the screen, taking out a five dollar bill. “How old are you, anywayth? You look like you thould be going to our high thchool,” he asks slyly, handing Michael the money and making me feel socially inferior. How can he make conversation with Michael so easily? Wait, Michael just said that I was cute, didn’t he? 

Wait, he has a _crush_ on me? 

“I’m homeschooled. I’m seventeen, and I’ll be a senior after the summer,” Michael explains, counting out Rich’s change and handing it to him. We nod and Michael looks from Rich to me. “You’re awfully quiet, Jere. Maybe you shouldn’t bring friends if you’re gonna get all flustered like this. It’s cute, but listening to you stammer and stutter and defend your sexuality is a lot cuter.” I can’t even believe this is happening. I’m straight, for fuck’s sake.

Rich feigns a hurt expression as he puts his change back into his wallet. “Damn, I’m juth-t trying to be friendly. I’ll leave you two to flirt,” he teases, punching me lightly in the arm before walking over to the small red table to the left of _Tastyland_. 

Michael watches Rich walk away, then looks back up at me. “Hi,” he says with a smile, getting ice out of the cooler at his feet and pouring some into the blender. “How’s your day been?” I ask awkwardly, leaning against the stand. I feel Rich looking at me, his eyes two burning daggers. Is he jealous? Probably not, since he has a boyfriend. Jake and him like each other a lot. 

“Well, as you saw when you came, I’ve basically just had to deal with runners and lactose-intolerant children all day. I feel for those kids, but, like, we only have one dairy-free option, and I doubt that many kids want plain vanilla soy ice cream,” Michael informs me as he pours some milk into the blender. I nod and bite the inside of my cheek. “You said you feel for them? What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, confused. Is he, like, allergic to dairy? 

Michael chuckles to himself and leans down to grab a cardboard box with small white packages in it, each one marked with a flavor. “I’m lactose-intolerant. Funny, I know. Ironic. I work at an ice cream place. However, the cramps and pain are totally worth it. Plus, mine isn’t severe or anything,” he explains, and I laugh with him. That’s pretty funny and kind of cute. Not cute, just, uh, funny. “Am I rambling? I feel like I’m rambling.” 

“Maybe a little, but I don’t mind,” I admit, and he presses a button on the blender. “So, you’re homeschooled? What’s that like? Why don’t you go to Middle Borough High?” Michael finishes my milkshake and pours some caramel sauce into the bottom of my cup, then empties the contents of the blender into it. “My parents don’t trust the public school system, and my mom feels like she can better keep an eye on me and prepare me for the future if I’m stuck in front of a screen all day doing online work.” 

I wince and he passes me my milkshake. “Sounds hard. I had to take online French last semester, but I dropped out, like, after the first week,” I tell Michael, who is opening the small glass covering over a few tubs of chilled ice cream. “That sucks. Had to do the same thing with Spanish, except I can’t drop out,” he relates, grabbing a cone from a small paper sleeve. “I had to take online P.E. once.” 

I find myself laughing and almost choking on my milkshake. “O-Online P.E.? How does that even work?” I ask, very aware and embarrassed at my loud laughter. Michael looks up at me and smiles gently. “Honestly, the program would tell me to keep, like, an exercise log, and I just made up a bunch of stuff. It’s easy, but other classes can be really hard. Especially stuff like math,” he enlightens me. I’ve never met anyone who has been homeschooled, so I enjoy listening to Michael talk about it. “That sounds awful,” I grimace, and he nods. 

“Sure is. I wish that I went to school with you. I’m sure we’d be, like, really great friends,” he tests the water, and I nod as I take a sip from my milkshake. It’s pretty good. My confidence is abnormally high right now, so I may as well use it while I can. “ _Best_ friends, probably,” I reply, trying to keep up with the conversation. For the first time ever, I think I see him blush. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, though. 

He scoops out some ice cream and places it on the cone, then holds it out for me. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I think that your boyfriend is getting agitated. He’s jealous,” Michael teases, and I blush enough for the two of us. “I’m single,” I spit, then take a breath. “And straight.”

Michael winks as I walk toward Rich. “Don’t melt your milkshake before you finish it, hot stuff!” he calls as I walk away, a sort of mantra of his.

God, I’m supposed to be straight, but I think that Michael Mell is starting to convince me otherwise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof a long chapter had to do it to em 
> 
> also i’m blown away by the love and support this fic is already getting!! keep in mind that every chapter is going to be an entry from each day of summer, but I probably won’t do, like, every day 
> 
> xofaith


	4. May 29

All of these milkshakes can’t be great for my health. Not that I necessarily eat very healthy anyways, but I also didn’t drink a milkshake every day before school let out. I won’t gain any weight, I know, but my acne is starting to get worse because of the insane amount of dairy I have been working into my diet. 

Oh well, Michael makes it worth my time. 

As I walk along the now-familiar sidewalk to _Tastyland_ , I can’t help but laugh. Isn’t it funny that I’m basing my entire summer off of some guy that I don’t even know? Plus, if he was actually being serious yesterday, didn’t he say that he has a crush on me? I don’t want to lead him on, but it seems like every time I visit the cart, my “steadfast” heterosexuality isn’t so, well, steadfast. 

“Jeremy,” Michael smiles as I approach the stand, hands in my pockets. “Hi. Where’s your friend?” I return his grin and lean against the stand as usual. “He’s, uh, not really my friend. Kinda. I think he just feels bad for me,” I say sadly, not meaning to get so deep. Stupid fucking anxiety. 

Michael frowns and scratches his neck. “Hey, don’t say that!” he reprimands, then reaches his arm out to lay a hand on mine. “Rich seems like he’s genuinely interested in you. You two seem like good friends. I wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t wanna sound weird or anything, but it seems like you have self-esteem issues or something.” I try to listen to what he’s saying, but all I can do is look at his hand. On my hand. His hand is on my hand.

He follows my gaze and pulls his hand away apologetically, and I wish I could’ve stopped my hand from following his. Oh God, Michael definitely noticed that. “Uh, sorry,” I mumble, shaking my head and taking my hand back to lean against it. “That was weird, I’m sorry. Yeah, I guess I have self-esteem issues, but, uh, that’s not an ice cream vendor’s job to worry about them. What’s my milkshake today? I forgot.” 

Michael gives me a sad look and opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. “I won’t probe, but maybe that ice cream vendor cares a lot about how you feel and wants you to know that he’s here for you. He doesn’t wanna overstep and be weird, but he cares about you,” he finally says, and I feel my stomach turn over. 

Damnit, Michael. 

“I, uh...” I try to say, but my words fail me and I’m unable to speak. Instead, Michael looks at the menu, then starts making my shake. “So, what are your plans for today?” he asks me, and I shrug. I never know what I’m doing, and it’s probably going to be nothing today. Again. 

“Honestly, I don’t have any,” I admit sourly, disappointed in my lack of a life. “Probably spend the afternoon trying to figure out how to use my oven. I’m craving grilled cheese.” I really am craving grilled cheese, though. Michael looks up from his work, his smile returning to his face. He has such perfect, small teeth. Had he ever worn braces? It looks like he has. “I make some bomb-ass grilled cheese, Jeremy,” Michael tells me, beaming. 

I snort quietly and readjust, leaning on my arms. “Yeah? You’ll have to let me try your cooking some day, then. I absolutely love grilled cheese. It’s, like, my favorite food group,” I suggest, and I can’t believe that I actually got up the confidence to say that. ‘ _You’ll have to let me try your cooking some day_ ’? Damnit, Jeremy. 

Michael’s grin widens as he pours milk into the blender. “Yeah, I will. So how’s it been being in the public school system your whole life? I guess you’ve never been homeschooled or in a private school,” he asks over the humming of the blender. I blink and gaze up at the awning thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve never known anything other than the public school system, so everything seems normal to me. What do you want to know?” 

He pauses and stops the blender. “Hm. Are the cliques and groups at school just like the movies? Like, the really cheesy teen movies?” Michael inquires, and he looks so fucking cute all of a sudden. 

_I’m straight. I’m straight. I’m straight._

”Well,” I start, trying to keep a straight and serious face, “I guess. Not that pronounced, but Middle Borough is pretty big. There are lots of students. My friend group is pretty diverse, but there are definitely some groups that are, uh, more exclusive.” Michael nods and stretches his arms over his head. “Interesting. I always thought it was a bit overexaggerated.”

I chuckle and shrug. “It is. What about homeschooling? I can’t imagine how lonely it gets,” I counter, rocking back on my heels. This has been a remarkably stable, long conversation. I can’t help but feel proud of myself. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Michael laughs. “It gets so boring. Really lonely. Plus, my teachers kind of suck. A few of them are nice, but the other ones are annoying and no help at all.” 

“Wait, you have teachers? I thought, like, _parents_ taught homeschooled kids,” I say in amazement, gazing at Michael under his hat. He has a really cute hat. Michael nods and bites his bottom lip. “Yep. There are little chat rooms and stuff, and I can email them whenever. Unfortunately, some of them take a while to reply, or their replies are super vague and not helpful at all. It’s whatever, though. You learn to become very self-sufficient. Plus, I have different homeschool groups I go to. Like, I know there are a lot of them around here. Some of my friends are part of a theatre one. That would be fun if I could act.” 

My eyes light up at the mention of a theatre group. “Theatre? I like theatre! I was in a school play this year and I’m pretty involved with it now. I go to a group like that, too! Except, well, it’s with my friend Christine. It’s not a homeschool group,” I explain, and Michael smiles. 

“What?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything and just keeps smiling at me. 

“Nothing, you’re just cute when you get excited about things. I’m glad I don’t have any waiting customers, because I’m really enjoying our chat,” Michael maintains. He suddenly remembers my milkshake and pops a lid onto the drink, which he must’ve poured at some point. He slides it to me and continues talking. “Theatre, huh? Do you sing? Act?” 

I take a sip of my milkshake. Fudge. It’s actually really great. Wait, isn’t this the flavor he recommended to his “favorite” customers? 

“I act,” I reply sheepishly, swallowing my drink. “Not great, but I’m getting better, I guess. I’m awful at improv, though. Do you have any, uh, hobbies?” Michael gives me a surprised look. “Hobbies? Oh, uh, I play piano, I guess. I like to sing, but I’m not that great. I listen to a lot of music. I play video games. I have quite an extensive comic collection. Also, I’m sure that you’re great at acting,” he utters, fingers laced below his chin. 

I can feel my blush creeping back over my cheeks. “Th-That’s really cool. Piano? How long have you been playing?” 

Michael picks his head up and starts counting on his fingers. “I wanna say... twelve years? Yeah, probably about twelve years. My mom insisted that I learn because it, like, makes you smarter or something. Unfortunately, can’t relate. However, it’s fun to say that I can play and that I have at least one hobby. Oh, I play at this art museum place sometimes. That’s pretty cool.” 

I listen intensely as Michael continues his rambling. He can play piano? He must have quick fingers. I want to hit myself for thinking about the things he could do with his fingers, because I’m straight. I shouldn’t be thinking about those kinds of things. 

“–but that’s enough about piano. Do you play any instruments?” I blink quickly and try to think of something to say. Should I lie and say that I do? That wouldn’t make any sense. Am I trying to impress him or something? “N-No,” I falter, drawing my lips into a thin line. “I don’t. I, uh, sing in the shower sometimes.” Fuck, why did I say that?

Michael bursts into peals of laughter and brings his hands to his cheeks, pushing them together. It’s in my top ten favorite things that I’ve ever seen. “That’s _adorable_ , stop it. It’s taking every bit of my willpower to not kiss you and squeeze your cheeks,” he squeals, and again, I’m left breathless. Kiss me? _Kiss me?_

“It’s, uh, true,” I continue, and he lets a small breathy chuckle escape his mouth. “I’m not great at it, but it makes my throat feel better.” 

Michael starts laughing again, near sobs, and takes off his hat to readjust it. His curly hair tumbles over his head in the most gorgeous way. Holy shit, stop. I’m straight. “Well, not to be direct, but I know what would make your throat feel better,” he teases with a wink. “There’s a reason I call this stand _Tasty Licks_.”

I freeze. What the _fuck_ did he just say? 

“‘ _Tasty Licks?_ ’” I ask incredulously, my voice barely above a terrified whisper. Michael chuckles to himself and looks behind me. I follow his gaze and see that there’s a person in line behind me. “It was really nice seeing you again, Jeremy. I except you back tomorrow,” Michael reminds me as I step out of line, smiling awkwardly at the other customer behind me. 

She has a pixie cut. 

And four kids. 

I look back at Michael, who mouths “peach milkshake” as I wave to him. He blows me a kiss and looks at the other customer, greeting her with a toothy grin. 

Jesus Christ, I need to stop letting this boy make me reconsider my sexuality. 


	5. May 30 - Part 1

I have theatre group on Wednesday’s with Christine, which is why Wednesday is my favorite day of the week. It’s a bit like a club, except I don’t have to pay any entry fee and everyone who works with my group is a volunteer. 

Unfortunately, that’s not until 4:30, though, so I guess I have some time to kill. 

It occurs to me that I could always spend what few hours I have until then talking to Michael, but he probably has better things to do. I had originally thought that I’d just hit up _Tastyland_ on my way to theatre group, but apparently I have other plans in mind, because it’s two o’clock and I’m putting on my shoes to leave the house. I grab my blue folder out of one of my desk drawers, which is full of the scripts and stage directions from various plays and musicals the theatre group has worked with. We enjoy skimming through and making marks, as well as talking about expression and interpretation. 

It’s pretty much just twenty kids getting together to gush over Shakespeare, if I’m being honest with myself. 

“I’m leaving,” I tell my cat, who’s sitting on my window sill. He looks back at me and blinks one eye at a time, the sun causing them to shimmer. Cooper is pretty cute, and I consider taking a picture of him to show to Michael. 

Michael, who I’m starting to think I have a crush on. 

This is all very new and confusing to me. I’ve only seen Michael, like, four times. I don’t know a lot about him, just like he doesn’t know a lot about me. He flirts with me relentlessly, makes inappropriate comments about what the ice cream cart should be called and how I could make my throat feel better, and always hints at having a crush on me. However, here’s the biggest problem: I’m straight. 

If I'm straight, then why do I like Michael so much? Maybe I’m just overthinking this. Right, Jeremy, a person calls you cute once and suddenly you’d lay down your life for them. Is this one of those situations? Hell, I’m leaving two and a half hours before theatre group so that I can _maybe_ talk to some teenager who, for all I know, is actually a pedophile rapist who just happens to look young and very attractive. 

So, _so_ attractive. 

Cooper mewls at me as I finish tying my shoes. “Yeah, okay. I’ll fill up your dish before I leave,” I wave him away, and he looks back out the window. I stand to my feet, my knees cracking loudly, a shooting pain racing up my back. “ _Fuck_.”

———

I’m glad that the walk to _Tastyland_ is so short. My body isn’t articulated for long walks, exercise, or sports in general. Wait, walking isn’t a sport. 

There’s a relatively long line of customers standing in front of the ice cream cart when I arrive, which is weird, considering that it’s usually empty when I come. I peer around the people in front of me and see Michael struggling to open up the register while also trying to make a sundae for an impatient kid at the front of the line. I wince and consider walking around to help him. Should I? 

I should. 

I meekly shuffle past the line of waiting customers, who give me dirty looks and murmur amongst themselves as they watch me. They probably think I’m trying to cut in line or something. I round the cart and look at Michael, who hasn’t noticed me yet. I need to think of something funny and heroic to say. 

“Need some help?” I pull together, and Michael’s head shoots up. He looks like a deer caught in headlights as his hair bounces slightly, his eyes wide and glossy. It seems like my presence calms him a bit, because his shoulders relax and his lips curl into an appreciative smile. “Y-Yeah,” he stammers, ripping his eyes from my gaze and letting them fall to his cash register. “This fucking thing won’t open.” 

The kid in the front of the line stands on his toes to look up at Michael with a disgusted glare. “My mom says that that’s a bad word,” he nags, and Michael looks down at him in contempt. “That’s not what she said last n–“ 

I punch Michael in the arm. 

“Sorry, bud,” I recover for Michael, who is still trying to pry the register open. “This register ate too much money and now he’s not hungry anymore. My friend just needs to remind him that it’s time for lunch.” I’ve always been pretty great with kids, even though I’m not sure I’d be able to raise any of my own. Children are innocent and nonjudgmental, so I don’t have to worry about following social cues or overthinking what I say. 

The kid looks up at me and smiles. He’s missing a tooth. “Did the tooth fairy come?” I ask, pointing to my teeth and looking at his. I’m not really sure how old this kid is, but he seems to eat up every word out of my mouth. 

“Yeah,” he informs me, pulling his top lip back so that I can see the gaping hole that once had a tooth in it. “The tooth fairy left me five whole dollars!” I raise my eyebrows like I’m shocked. Michael yanks the drawer open with a grateful cheer, then makes the kid his change. The boy tells me more about the tooth fairy as Michael finishes making both the change and the sundae, giving the money back to the boy. 

He shoves it into his back pocket and takes the clear container that Michael passes to him. “Sorry, kiddo,” he apologizes softly. “Thanks for waiting.” The boy sticks his tongue out at Michael, then waves to me before skipping away. Michael casts his glance in my direction, and I have to pretend like I don’t know he’s looking at me as the next customer steps forward. 

“Chocolate cone,” the old man says, adjusting his glasses as he looks up at me. Talking to small children is one thing, but to actual adults? Not my forte in the slightest. Michael decides to take over, making small talk with the man easily. 

I watch as Michael starts the cone, not realizing that the old man is waving a ten dollar bill at me. “Sir. Sir!” he’s saying, and I look down in confusion. “I, uh, I don’t work here,” I tell him, though it comes out more like a question. He slams the bill onto the stand and cocks a brow at me. “Is it _that_ hard to make change?” 

Okay, I guess I’m making change now. Does this mean I can say that I work(ed) in fast food? 

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter as Michael finishes the cone, handing it to the customer. Michael puts his hand on top of mine and brings it up to the register, making me push a few buttons like I’m a puppet. I can’t help but look up at him as he looks at our hands. _I’m straight, I’m straight, I’m straight._

“Just press that one and...” The drawer pops out and the register rings quietly. 

Holy shit, I’m not straight. 

My moment of enlightenment leaves me breathless and unable to move. I have to trust Michael to move my hand away from the register. He takes cash out of the clips and hands it to the man, then a few coins. “Enjoy your ice cream, sir,” Michael tells the old man, who I can feel is giving me a weird look. 

I don’t _see_ it because I’m too busy staring at Michael. 

How could this even be happening? I left my house a heterosexual teenager, and now all I can think about is dating Michael and kissing him and doing other things with him. Of course I’d never admit that to him, but why am I thinking about all of these things? Is the heat getting to me? I knew that _Tastyland_ was putting some weird shit into their milkshakes. 

“Jeremy?” Michael asks before the next customer approaches us, scanning the menu. “Jere, c’mon, man. Are you having a stroke?”

A stroke of genius, maybe.

”N-No, sorry,” I stutter, and he furrows his brows at me. I look down at my shoes to collect myself, and I realize that he’s wearing dinosaur _Converse_ , the fucking nerd. 

Whoever's ordering tells Michael what they want, and Michael grabs my hand and pulls at it silently. He doesn’t want to embarrass me, and I can appreciate that. However, he’s holding my hand. He’s holding my hand. He’s holding my hand. 

My heart skips a beat when he lets go to ring up the woman who’s ordering, and I feel... empty. 

Michael makes a milkshake and casual conversation with the woman, something about the weather. “It’s really hot, yeah,” Michael agrees, popping a lid onto her cup. “I blame global warming. Have a nice day.”

A group of teenage girls giggles as they step forward. Oh God. I’m shaking and I can’t breathe as their beady eyes shift from me to Michael. “Hey, boys,” one of them says. She had straight blonde hair and is wearing a lot of eyeshadow. It’s very purple. Michael breathes deeply and smiles at them. “What can I get you girls?” 

“I’ll have a scoop of you!” one of them ventures, causing the rest of the group to collectively giggle. Michael scrunches up his nose and sighs. I look from Michael to the girls, and I can tell that this encounter is very awkward for him. “Uh, they don’t serve that,” I peep cautiously, and every pair of eyes travels to my face. I’m burning. 

“It was a joke,” one of them says with a grimace, then looks back at Michael. “Can I get a vanilla cone?” Michael nods and taps away at the register, taking the money from the girl’s outstretched hand. He leans over to the cooler and pulls an ice cream spoon out of a metal cup, scraping what little amount of vanilla is left at the bottom of the container. “Here,” he says, offering the cone to the girl. She takes it and “accidentally” brushes her fingers against Michael’s.

Why do I feel so jealous?

“Thanks,” she says as she licks the top of it, making direct eye contact with Michael. She steps aside and lets one of her friends order, then the next, then the next, until they all have ice cream. They chorus a bitterly sweet “bye” to Michael. 

Why did they look at me like that? I know that I’m not as cute as Michael, but that was a little rude.

Michael huffs, relieved, and practically falls against the ice cream cart. “Holy shit,” he breathes, exasperated. “Thank you so much.” I can’t help the smile that creeps across my features. Now that I’m unable to think _straight_ , I can fully appreciate his attractiveness. “Sure. I figured that I may as well help while I could. Plus, I just realized that I didn’t pay yesterday,” I point out, reaching for my wallet. Michael puts a hand up and shooes my wallet away. 

“No, don’t worry about it. It was on me. I’m about to close up shop, anyways. I have a piano thing tonight, so the owner said I could close early,” he informs me, fishing a sign out from under the stand and setting it on top. 

I frown. Did I miss my chance to talk with him? 

Michael takes notice my expression and shakes his head quickly. “Oh, dude, sorry. I can still stay here and talk! I may or may not have told my boss a little white lie about what time I start my shift at the museum, so I have quite a few hours until then.” My frown fades into a smile and I tilt my head. “Nice. I like talking with you,” I tell him, and I instantly regret it. God, I need to keep my mouth shut. 

“I like talking to you, too. So, what is my knight in shining armor planning for tonight?” he teases me, clasping his hands together by his cheek. 

I roll my eyes and lean against the counter. “I have theatre group, actually,” I inform him proudly, and he raises his brows in surprise. “Theatre group? Tonight? Sounds fun.” I nod and shrug. “Yeah, it is. Not as fun as whatever this piano thing you have sounds, though. Tell me about it,” I shift the conversation. Michael unties his apron and folds it up, shoving it onto a shelf. He takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, then leads me to the red table that Rich sat at whenever we came here together.  

“Well, as you hopefully remember, I said that I played at the museum sometimes,” he reminds me, and I nod. I do remember. “They’re having some sort of charity thing full of rich people, and they wanted some background noise. Plus, I have a tip jar. I’ll be able to afford your milkshakes for a few summers after tonight.” 

I laugh quietly and cross my legs. “Yeah? What are you playing?” I inquire, resting my chin on my laced fingers. Michael taps his finger against the metal table, the resulting sound quiet but slightly annoying. “Maybe Chopin. Bach. Clementi. I have a certain sonatina in mind,” he muses, and I nod like I understand anything he just said. Suddenly, he sits bolt upright, a huge grin across his face. “Hey, you should come! It’s open to everyone, but of course there’ll be rich people. It’s _supposed_ be to be business casual, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’ll be a black tie kind of thing. Of course you don’t have to come. I, uh, don’t know why I asked.” 

I’m surprised at his invitation, but it warms my heart that he actually invited me. “O-Oh,” I say stupidly, nodding. “What time is it?” 

“Eight. Wait, that might be past your bedtime,” he jeers, and I kick him under the table. Where is this confidence coming from? “I’ll have you know that my bedtime is half past that. I’ll be there. Is it free?” I decide. Would my dad even be okay with this? He wouldn’t care, would he? If Michael’s talking about what museum I think he is, I could always just walk there after theatre group if it runs late. 

Michael nods and brings his hands together excitedly. “Ah, this is so cool! I actually managed to make a friend and invite him to my little show. I’m a bit rusty, so you’ll have to excuse me in advance,” he rambles, and I smile sweetly. 

“Cool. I’m excited. You’re probably actually really good and just working me up for the big reveal.” 

———

Christine stands up and throws her bag over her shoulder, looking up at me in disbelief. “Jeremy Heere, the ultimate hetero, acknowledging the fact that he might not be straight? Unheard of,” she gasps, and I cross my arms. “Yeah, well, this is all confidential. I had to tell you at the end of group so that you wouldn’t tease me the whole time.” 

After Michael had invited me to his show thing, we talked for a long time. I had honestly lost track of time, and he offered to walk me to the theatre for practice. I politely declined, afraid that I’d say or do something I’d regret if he did. I said something about having to make another stop before I got there, which was true. I had bought a small bouquet of red roses, which I thought only appropriate for Michael’s performance. 

That’s normal, right? 

“So, you have, like, two hours before the date starts,” Christine tells me, and we walk out of the theatre together. “I suggest that you get home, change, and then get a taxi to take you. It’d be a bit of a squeeze if you tried to walk there. Especially in a suit.” 

I hold the roses in one hand and my folder in another, so I can’t physically hide my face in embarrassment. The theatre isn’t far from my house, so I walk quickly to minimize the time until my arrival. “Thanks, Mom,” I grumble, looking at the sidewalk. “It’s not a date, first of all. Also, I may chicken out. I’m nervous.” Christine snorts and rolls her eyes. “That sounds just like a date. Just be yourself and pretend to look at art, then gaze back cluelessly like you’re in an anime and listen as his piano-playing becomes dramatically louder and more passionate,” she paints the picture for me, and I wince inwardly. 

“Remind me to never trust you with my dating life, ever,” I counter, and we pass _Tastyland_ as we go. At the crosswalk, Christine pats my cheek as a farewell, then turns to walk down the sidewalk to her neighborhood. I’d offer to walk her home if I didn’t have places to be, but apparently I have a date to go on. 

It’s not a date.

———

My acne is so bad. My hair isn’t cooperating. My teeth look so yellow in this light. My tie is crooked and the knot is too big. Jesus, could anything else go wrong? 

I make out hundreds of cat hairs on my tuxedo, and I groan in frustration. Why had I held Cooper for thirty minutes beforehand? I hurriedly retrieve a lint roller from my room, attacking my suit with it until it’s hairless and a faded black. It this black tie? I don’t know. My tie isn’t black, because all I have is the pink one that my dad made me wear to his sister’s wedding a few years ago. Hopefully I don’t get kicked out of this thing. 

I fight the urge to not mess with a huge zit that had made an appearance earlier this morning and run my hand through my hair one more time. I wish I didn’t have to call a taxi service. 

If I weren’t terrified of the berating and questioning I’d face if I asked my dad to drive me, I’d just ask him to drop me off. The ride isn’t long, and neither is the walk, but I just can’t risk anything happening to my suit or my hair. I spent forever on my hair. Satisfied with my appearance, I step out of the bathroom. My dress shoes clack loudly against the wooden floor, and I’m afraid that I’ll alert my dad, who’s in his room doing God knows what. 

Luckily, he doesn’t come barreling out, and I’m able to safely escape the house, roses in hand. I check my phone to see if the taxi driver has sent me any text updates, but as soon as I do, a car pulls up to my mailbox. I take a shaky breath and trip to the car, sliding into the back seat without saying a word. 

“ _Westmoreland_ , right?” the driver asks me. I’ve always been horrified of those taxi murder cases, and I’m praying that this doesn’t turn into one of those. “Y-Yeah,” I choke out, buckling my seatbelt and gripping the edge of my seat. The driver nods and pulls the car out of park, and we’re on our way. 

God, I hope this goes well.


	6. May 30 - Part 2

It’s cold. There are way too many people. Why did I agree to this? I don’t even know Michael that well. What if this is a plot to kill me? It’d be perfect, too. I can see the headlines now: _Stupid “Straight” Twig Boy Gets Murdered at What He Thought Was a Charity Event at an Art Museum! Spoiler: It Wasn’t a Charity Event at an Art Museum!_

Okay, deep breaths. 

The air is filled with high-pitched laughter, and nearly everyone here is dressed in a black suit with a black tie. I feel a bit out of place, especially since I’m the only teenager in the entire building, it seems. However, above the loud chatter and the clinking glass and the footsteps against the finished wood floors, I hear soft piano music wafting through the air. I can’t hear it well, so I decide to walk in the direction of where I think it’s coming from. 

As I snake my way through the crowd, occasionally bumping into adults with fake accents and toupees, the music gets louder. I feel every note rack my body, every key and pitch perfect and melodic. I’m blown away. Is that Michael? Is he actually playing here? 

The piano is incredibly loud now, and I think that I’m near the main room. The crowd here is the thickest, and I pretend to study a painting of a blue stripe as I wait patiently for a group of people to move out of the entryway. After a few moments, I’m able to walk into the room, and the way that the piano is echoing off of the covered walls entrances me. I’ve never been particularly fond of piano, but this is different. Michael’s playing. 

It’s different. My hands grow clammy and I’m afraid that I’m going to drop the bouquet. Just a little bit longer. I wind through the people in the room and suddenly stumble into a large opening, at which a huge black piano rings in the center.

Michael. 

My mouth falls open as I catch sight of him. From where I’m standing, I can only see the back of his head and his back, but he doesn’t even have any music in front of him. Oh my God, he’s so amazing. I’ve never heard any piano so loud and deep and pure. The music fills my lungs as I seemingly forget how to breathe. Of course he can’t see me, but I don’t care. I watch in amazement as he stretches his arm to one end of the piano, the lower notes filling the air as his fingers on his other hand dance across higher, softer keys. 

It’s so beautiful. That sounds tacky, but I literally want to cry. 

A hand falls to my shoulder and I jump, knocked out of my trance. I look up and see a tall, lean man. He has thinning white hair and pronounced bags under his eyes. In one hand, he has a wine glass, which is nearly empty. They have alcohol here? “He’s good, isn’t he?” the man asks, and I’m pretty sure he’s talking to me. Fuck, how do I act like a rich person? 

“Uh, quite,” I reply softly, trying a snoody accent. It doesn’t work. The man nods and looks down at me. “Are you his boyfriend? Those are very nice roses, I do say,” he comments, and I feel my words get caught in my throat. 

“No, I, uh–“ I stammer, and the music stops. I guess the song ended. I look over to Michael and see that he’s scanning the room, a frown on his face. Is he looking for me? The crowd claps quietly, dainty hands tapping against each other with grace. Is that what it looks like when rich people clap? Why is there a social hierarchy to clapping? 

Michael turns his head and catches my eye, and his frown disappears as it’s replaced by a huge grin. He waves at me and winks, then turns back around and starts another song. He’s probably not allowed to stop playing or something like that. The old man next to me chuckles and pats my shoulder. “Right, okay. Tell your partner that I enjoyed his playing when he’s done,” he muses, and I blush. Damnit, old man. I don’t even bother telling him that I’m not dating Michael, because he’s already walking away. I stand alone like a loser and listen to Michael play his next song. It’s slow, but it’s fast. It’s quiet, but it’s loud. It seems like he’s getting louder with every note, until he plays the measure again and it gets quieter. 

I’ll never understand the rules of piano.

As the song continues, I start thinking about how music is a bit like acting. I imagine the song as a scene from a play, even though I’m making it up as the song goes on. The notes that Michael plays with his left hand, I decide, represent a mother. The other notes are the father. They’re in a battle for custody over their child, and when the notes get louder, that’s the parents raising their voices.

I’m not exactly sure why I’ve started thinking about this particular scenario, because I’ve never dealt with anything like it. It’s dumb, really, but it helps me understand the music more. Maybe if I understood what the song meant to Michael, I could gain a deeper understanding of what it’s about. The song ends, and I didn’t realize that I had been rationalizing my thinking for so long. Weird.

This time, I join the room in clapping, and Michael looks back at me, beaming. He spots the roses and raises his eyebrows, placing a hand over his chest. “For me?” he mouths, and I nod awkwardly, smiling. He sighs happily and turns back around to start another song. 

I’m not really sure how long I’ve been standing for, or how long Michael has been playing for. However, before I know it, the chatter has died down, and the room is almost empty. A few people stand huddled together, hushed voices discussing an exhibit on the other side of the room. I haven’t moved from my spot at all. When the piano stops playing altogether, I wait for the next song to start. However, it doesn’t. Michael sits at the piano and stares at the keys, and I guess that that means he’s done. I take a breath before walking over to him. 

My legs really ache. 

“Wow, Mozart,” I gush, clapping dramatically. My hand crushes the cellophane wrapping on the flowers, and I wince as the sound echoes against the walls. Michael turns to look up at me, a huge grin plastered across his face. “I can’t believe you actually came!” he laughs breathlessly, scooting over to make room for me. 

I sit down next to him and look at the piano keys. There are just so many. 

“Of course,” I say smoothly, proud of how sophisticated I sound. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Thanks for inviting me.” Michael nods and looks at the flowers. “Oh,” I add, handing them to him. “These are, uh, for you.” 

Michael chuckles and takes the flowers, gazing at them in admiration. “You’re too sweet, Jere. Also, you look hot in a suit. How many pounds of hair gel did you have to use?” I blush and roll my eyes. “Yeah, uh, I don’t use hair gel,” I defend myself, crossing my arms. “Teach me a song. I want to watch you play it from right here.” Michael looks at me, a glint in his eye, and he sets the flowers down on the piano ledge. “Hm. Fast? Slow? How do you like it?” he asks suggestively, and I punch him in the arm. 

“Slow. Piano, by the way. Slow piano,” I tack on, and Michael smirks. “ _Piano_ ,” he repeats, winking. “So fast. Gotcha. Okay, I’m thinking... Oh, I know a Nocturne that I could play. It’s slow and angsty, but romantic and very expressive. I need this pedal, though.” He moves my foot over with his own, then rests it against a golden pedal that’s coming from under the piano. 

“What does that do?”

Michael snickers and looks over at me. “Sustaining pedal. Makes this–“ He presses a key and lets go, ending the note abruptly. “–into this.” He presses the key again, but this time, with the pedal, and then lets go of the key. The note rings on, however. “It’s called a sustaining pedal.” 

I nod and gaze adoringly at Michael, who’s not looking at me, luckily. There’s no way a straight guy would look at a dude with this much overwhelming emotion. 

“Sustaining pedal?” I echo, and he nods. “Yeah. This song is called, uh, Spanish Nocturne, I think. I’ve known it since I was in fifth grade, so I don’t know.” He places his hands lightly onto the keys, his pinky pressing down onto a white key as the song starts. 

I listen intently as the song begins, and it sounds like a stormy night or something. Michael was right; it sounds very angsty. The song transitions, and I think he changes keys. The notes flow beautifully, and being up close and personal with the pianist and the piano really does change the sound quality. Everything sounds more raw, and I have a greater appreciation for the multitasking it must require to press the foot pedal and the keys and remember the notes all at the same time. 

Hell, I can barely maintain a conversation while remembering to breathe. 

The piano gets quieter as the song ends, and Michael stretches over me to hit a key toward my end of the piano and at his end, the clashing octaves creating a perfect ending sound. I clap quietly and nod. “Amazing,” I whisper, astonished. He’s so talented and cute and perfect and oh my God I can’t help myself. 

Michael smirks sheepishly and stands up, grabbing his bouquet with one hand and closing the piano’s lid with the other. I stand up as well, watching the lid close quietly. “Can I walk you home this time, at least? Don’t want my favorite customer getting kidnapped.” 

I take a deep breath and turn the idea over in my head. “I... I don’t want you to go out of your way,” I reply quietly, but Michael shakes his head. “It’s not, I promise. If your walk to _Tastyland_ is a straight shot from that neighborhood right outside of downtown Greensburg, then I live a few minutes further than you do from downtown. That’s my guess. We’ll have to see, I suppose,” he assures me, and I sigh hesitantly. 

“Alright, if it’s not an inconvenience,” I say finally, and Michael’s grin widens. “Great. Let me grab my stuff and we’re off.” Michael leaves me to run off to another room, a door marked “GUILD EMPLOYEES ONLY” swinging open and shut behind him. 

What am I thinking? I barely just figured out that I’m not straight, whatever I am, and I’m already having these weird fantasies about Michael? I barely even know him. 

Before I grow restless, Michael returns from the room, a bag hanging from his shoulder. “Alright, out we go,” he says, walking away before realizing that he forgot the small fishbowl that was overflowing with cash on top of the piano. He walks back to retrieve it, emptying the cash into his bag and then setting it back on the piano. “Told you,” he says as I stare at the insane amount of tips he got. 

Maybe I should’ve learned how to play piano when I was younger, too. 

“You were, uh, you were really great tonight,” I rush as we exit the building, the cool night air swallowing us as we walk down the sidewalk. Michael is probably smiling, but it’s too dark to tell. “Thank you, Jeremy,” he replies graciously, and I feel him put a hand on my arm. “I really do appreciate you coming out tonight, by the way. Wasting your night for some guy that serves you milkshakes daily? A true act of heroism, babe.” 

I blush at the fact that he just called me “babe,” because some people just do that ironically. This is probably just one of those occurrences. 

“Yeah, well, I enjoyed it,” I tell Michael as we cross the road, the walking sign illuminated across the crosswalk. “You’re so talented. Didn’t know that someone could be so good at two things.” 

“Which are?” 

I look at him, his face dimly lit by the white light as we pass the sign. “Ice cream and piano, duh,” I state, chuckling. I’m feeling a little cocky, honestly. “Oh, a third thing. You’re pretty good at flirting.” 

Michael pauses a beat, but doesn’t stop walking. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Jeremy Heere, the most steadfast heterosexual I’ve ever met, is _flirting_ with me.” 

I feign shock. “Me? Flirting? Never.” What has gotten into me? Michael’s laugh is a short, breathy chuckle. He’s so fucking cute and I just want to flower him with kisses. For God’s sake, how did I ever maintain a heterosexual attitude around this boy? 

“Yeah, okay. Don’t tempt me, Jere,” Michael teases, leaning over so that he bumps into me. “Oh my God, wait. You didn’t even get a milkshake today!” 

I laugh, because I definitely completely forgot about it. “I’ll get two tomorrow then,” I promise, and he joins in on my laughter. “You eat a lot for a stick, weirdo,” he comments through his laughter, and I shrug, my chuckling subsiding after a while. “Yeah, I have a blessed metabolism. I don’t work out either, as you can tell. You probably do.” It does look like he’s hit up the gym a few times, even if he’s not as skinny as I am. 

“Not often. I do a lot of ice cream shit, though, and that requires serious arm strength,” he informs me solemnly, and he shakes his blazer off. It’s a little too hot for two layers of long sleeves, but not hot enough for me to take off mine. I admire his smooth movements as he tosses the jacket over his arm. “Makes sense,” I interject quietly, more of an aside to myself. 

Michael and I continue walking and making pointless small talk as we approach my house. “This is me,” I say, turning on my heel to smile at Michael. He looks up my driveway and up at my house. I’m a bit embarrassed, because it’s pretty small and not much to show off. 

“Cute,” he remarks, and then looks at me. “Cuter. Thanks again for coming, Jeremy. And for the flowers. You were better than the flowers, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I grin and nod, sliding my hands into my pockets. “Yeah, of course.” 

Michael hesitates, and in the light washing over my driveway, I can see his eyes wander to my lips. However, maybe I just imagine it, because he breathes in quietly and just smiles. “Cool. See you.” 

Suddenly, he puts a hand on my shoulder, then plants a soft kiss on my cheek. 

 _Holy fuck_.

Michael continues walking down the sidewalk, not looking back at me. I bring my hand up to my cheek and watch him pad down the pavement. Did Michael Mell just kiss my cheek? 

And did I actually enjoy it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick little thing about the piano!! 
> 
> after the first song michael plays (like when jeremy can’t really see him), i imagined michael playing “well-tempered clavier, book one no. one” by js bach, which i played for a comp this year twice
> 
> when michael is done, he plays this song called “spanish nocturne” by kathleen massoud, which is a song i learned when i was in fifth grade too. i love that song and strongly suggest you take a listen
> 
> thank you for reading, friends!


	7. May 31

My phone starts buzzing in my back pocket as I open the fridge, looking for something to drink. 

I pull it out of my pocket and read the contact name. Christine. 

I groan loudly and roll my eyes, because I already know why she’s calling. I really should’ve just kept my interest in Michael to myself, to be honest. I don’t want to be showered with questions or comments about who I should date and what I should do. Reluctantly, I answer the call and hold the phone up to my ear. “Yeah?” 

Christine huffs irritably. “Uh, good afternoon to you, too. Why haven’t you been answering my texts?” she demands, and I wince as I remember specifically telling myself that I’d answer the twenty texts she had sent earlier when I got the chance. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had texted me,” I lie, and she’s probably rolling her eyes. 

“How was your date? Did you kiss? Are you officially dating now? Is it safe to tell Jenna that I won our bet?” she questions me, and I scowl at the fridge. “Bet?” 

“Yeah, bet,” Christine repeats incredulously. “I said that you’d realize you’re not straight before school started, and she said it’d take you the rest of your life. Bitch owes me five dollars and a package of _Hubba Bubba_. So?” I don’t speak for a few seconds. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since last night. 

Probably too much thinking. 

I can’t believe that Michael kissed my cheek, and I don’t even know where I’m at in life right now. As if I wasn’t already confused enough, stupid, attractive, suave Michael had to fucking invite me to his piano thing and be all talented and then kiss me. How dare he?

”Christine, I’m too confused to answer all of these questions,” I dodge carefully, pulling a liter bottle of _Dr. Pepper_ out of the fridge. “A lot happened. I don’t think I can ever go back to _Tastyland_. I’m sure as hell not going today, at least.” This is a decision that I made last night, probably closer to this morning, because I’m pretty sure that I got three hours of sleep at most. “I’m having a midlife crisis. I don’t know who I am or what I want.” 

There’s nothing but soft breathing from Christine’s end of the line, and I can tell that her gears are turning. I wish that she’d just say something, validate my feelings. 

My feelings are valid, right? 

When she finally speaks, it’s in a quiet voice, which is rare from Christine. “One, people don’t have midlife crises until they’re middle-aged and living in their mom’s basement, trying to figure out what to do with their Bachelor of Art degree. Secondly, you don’t need to know who you are. You’re a teenager, Jeremy. Don’t over-complicate this. Do you like him?” 

I pause. “Like who?”

”Michael, moron,” she snaps, but more in a joking tone. “Do you like him or not?” 

I sigh and close the fridge, setting the soda on the counter. “Christine, I don’t know. I don’t even know if I like boys or girls or both or what. I’m so confused,” I ramble, my breathing becoming irregular. Why am I getting so worked up about this? Old Jeremy would’ve just shoved down this identity crisis, pushing it to the back of his mind so that he’d only revisit it one fateful day when he had nothing else to think about in the _Arby’s_ bathroom. 

Why is new Jeremy different? 

Old Jeremy wasn’t even a week ago. How have I changed so much in just a few days? How can one guy do this to me? Fuck Michael for making me actually have to think about myself for once. 

“Jeremy, I didn’t ask whether or not you liked boys or girls. I asked if you like _Michael_. I’m sure that some people don’t know for sure their sexuality, but maybe they just like one person in particular, and that’s totally okay. Hell, man, gender and sexual identity exist on a spectrum nowadays. It used to be you conform or we drown you because you’re a witch. You have a _lot_ more freedom of self-expression now. You can think about it, but I hate seeing my best friend having an identity crisis at four in the afternoon.” 

I let Christine talk and try to listen. What she’s saying makes sense, and I can appreciate the rational standard to which she holds herself. She’s incredibly intelligent and has really smart, important things to say. “Okay,” I finally manage to say, though it’s not much. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” she asks with a laugh. “Don’t apologize for being a teenager. I’m going to the beach tomorrow, in New Jersey, if you wanna come. We can talk more then. Interested?” 

“Sure. Pick me up?”

”Yeah. See you at six sharp. It’s a five and a half hour drive. Bring snacks.”

With that, Christine hangs up, and I wait a beat before setting my phone down on the counter. I stare at the backsplash against the wall, trying to think of something. Anything. 

Except I can’t. 

I open the _Dr. Pepper_ with a soft sizzle, reaching for a cup in the cabinet above me. Why did I agree to go to the beach? That’s a long drive. And six in the morning? That’s a bit extreme. I pour the soda into my cup and return the bottle to the fridge. I’m not going to _Tastyland_ today, because I know that I’ll be even more confused about Michael and my sexuality. It’s already four in the afternoon, so Michael’s probably already closing up shop. He’s probably worried about me, but I seriously doubt it. 

The front door’s knob jiggles a few times and then opens, and my dad huffs loudly as he walks in. “Boy, it’s a hot one,” he declares, closing the door behind him and locking it. He hangs his blazer on the coat rack and looks over at me. “I forgot to ask where you went last night, by the way. I don’t mind that you went out, of course, but I’m just curious.” 

I hesitate momentarily. He’d probably make me invite Michael over or hang out with Michael if I told him the truth, or he’d question me relentlessly. However, I’m working on improving my relationship with him. Good relationships are built on trust and honesty, so I have two options. I can either lie and say that I went out with friends or tell him the truth about Michael. “Out with a friend,” I decide, which is neither a lie nor the entire truth. 

“Where to?”

”I made a new friend that works at the, uh, ice cream stand. Downtown. He invited me to a piano thing,” I come clean, sipping from my cup. My dad raises his eyebrows and shoves his hands into his pockets. “New friend, huh? What’s his name?” 

I sigh inwardly and roll my eyes. “Michael. How was work?” Anything to change the conversation. 

My dad nods and rocks back on his heels, shrugging. “Work was work. Glad you made a friend, Private. Any plans for tonight, then?” he furthers, and I feel my grip tighten on my cup. Keep it together, Jeremy. You’re overreacting. “No,” I say curtly, and I start walking out of the kitchen and to my room. However, I stop in the entryway to look back at my dad. 

“Christine and I are going to the beach tomorrow. I’ll be gone all day,” I tell him, and then return to my room for the night. Actually, I’ll probably come out to get something to eat later on. 

I’m glad that my dad isn’t overprotective, but he can be a bit nosy at times. I get that he just cares for my wellbeing and doesn’t want me getting, like, kidnapped or something, but it’s a little much at times. A few years ago, he tried to set up one of those “parent watch” apps that parents install in their kids’ phones. The ones that track websites you visit and texts you send and your location simultaneously. However, he couldn’t figure it out, so he decided to give up. Well, he _thought_ that it didn’t work, but the truth was that no one texted me or called me, because I had no friends. 

Sad reality. 

I pad over to my computer chair and sink into it, tapping the space bar on my keyboard a few times. The screen lights up with tabs that I had forgotten to close the last time I got on my computer. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do, but before I know it, I’m typing in Michael’s name into Google. Am I a stalker? Maybe. 

Several clickbait sites pop up, promising me Michael’s address and phone number and police record. I don’t need that just yet. However, after the first page of not helpful at all results, I start seeing things about piano. Something about a competition. Actually, a few things. I click on one of the sites, which is a local newspaper’s website. An awkward picture of Michael holding up a sort of certificate loads at the top of the page, and I giggle. His hair must have grown out since the picture was taken, because his hair looks a lot more tame. Plus, he has frosted tips in this picture. 

What a travesty.

He’s wearing a tuxedo and a soft blue tie, and he has a few buttons along the hem of his tuxedo. There’s a rainbow one, a Pac-man one, and a few others that have smaller designs on them that I can’t make out. Fucking nerd. The title of the article is something about a nationwide piano competition, and how “ _Greensburg piano prodigy Michael Mell_ ” won first place.

God, he’s so humble. I recall him telling me that he played piano, but not that well. What a liar. I blink a few times and realize that I’m literally stalking an ice cream vendor who I refused to see today because he confuses me and my sexuality. What am I doing?

I lean back in my chair and bring my hands up to my eyes in frustration, pulling at the skin under them and groaning loudly. Stupid Michael. I must decide that this article isn’t enough, because the next thing I know, I’m on _Instagram_ typing in any combination of “ _Michael Mell_ ” that I can think of. 

Finally, a small profile bar pops up with an “unflattering” picture of Michael pushing his nose up and crossing his eyes in the mirror. I grin and chuckle to myself. He still looks cute as heck. 

I click on the profile, hoping that it isn’t a private account. It’s not. 

I breathlessly read his bio, which is something about how gay he is, how much he loves the  _Beastie Boys_ , and then a stupid, cheesy quote from _The Lorax_. Judging from his several posts that look like memes based off of weird millennial humor, I’d say that Michael’s a walking meme. He’s probably obsessed with _Vine_ compilations, too. He has a lot of followers, which I see are mainly music groups and probably some college scouts. 

They must be getting a kick out of his account. 

I scroll down a few rows of posts and land on a picture of him and a boy who looks about our age, who’s kissing his cheek. The picture is dated a year or so ago. This must’ve been his boyfriend, but I guess they broke up at some point, because that’s where the pictures of Michael and this boy end. Before then, Michael had a few pictures with him and the guy, and I don’t know why I feel jealous when I look at them. 

Shaking my head, I close the app and turn off my phone before I accidentally like a picture of his or something. That’d be a fatal mistake. I’m not sure when _Tastyland_ closes, but it’s probably too late to visit Michael and ask about the boy. Plus, that’d be really creepy and stalker-ish. 

“ _Hey, Michael. I was looking through your_ Instagram _and saw you kissing some boy? Was he your boyfriend? Did you guys break up? Also, stop making me so fucking confused. And congrats on that piano competition._ ”

Yeah, right. 

I turn around in my chair a few times before forcing myself to pack for the beach tomorrow. I don’t even like the beach, so I’m not sure why I agreed to it. I pull out the only pair of swimming trunks that I own, laying them across my desk. I pull out some old cotton shirt, which has a nice little aesthetic sunset graphic thing on it. That’ll make a good overshirt, right? I lay it on top of my trunks and then grab a pair of khaki shorts and some boxers for when I can’t wear the trunks. Christine has a nice car, and I don’t want to wreck the seats. 

I wonder how Michael would look in a swimsuit. 

No I don’t. 

Honestly, I’m really not that hungry, so I think that I’ll just skip dinner and go to sleep right now. Besides, I have to wake up early as fuck tomorrow so that I can get up in time to go to the beach. Christine would wait for a few seconds before either beating my door down or just leaving me. 

I look down at my clothes and realize that I’ve been in pajamas all day. God, I’m gross. It’s even grosser that I’m not going to brush my teeth, even though I just drank soda, and that I’m not taking a shower for the second night in a row. Oh well, nothing that a generous spray of deodorant can’t fix. I climb into bed and ignore the sun that’s streaming through my window, illuminating my room. I look at my phone and set an alarm for half past five, knowing that I’ll need time to raid my pantry, get dressed, and wash my face and stuff. 

Two days in a row without seeing Michael. Will I survive? Probably. I doubt that they have ninety options in terms of milkshakes and ice cream and sundaes, so I’ll just catch up some other day. I feel guilty right before I fall asleep, because Michael literally did nothing wrong and I’m avoiding him. 

Well, it’s his fault that I’m having to come to terms with my sexuality, whatever it is. Am I bisexual? I don’t know. I don’t feel sexually attracted towards any boy other than Michael. Wait, I don’t feel sexually attracted to him. Shut up. Damnit, Jeremy. 

Flustered, I slam my eyes shut and pull my covers over my head, trying to sleep. It’s early compared to my normal bedtime, so it’ll be tough falling asleep. I need to clear my mind. 

Beach tomorrow. Long car ride. Deep conversations with Christine too early in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof had to do it to em


	8. June 1

I wake up to my blaring alarm, trying to figure out why the hell I agreed to going to the beach with Christine this early in the morning. Exhausted and hazy, I reach over in the general direction of my phone, finding it and bringing it up to my face. It’s too early for this. I groan and sit up slowly, stretching my arms as my alarm continues ringing. Irritably, I bring it back up to my face and turn off my alarm, staring at the time. 

It’s too early for this. 

After contemplating whether or not I should cancel on Christine, I hesitantly swing my legs over the side of my bed, sliding onto the floor and shuffling to my desk chair. I pull my shirt over my head and throw it into the laundry hamper that sits next to my closet, replacing it with my t-shirt that I chose last night. I step out of my boxers and figure that if I have enough time, I can masturbate before Christine picks me up. It doesn’t take long, anyways. 

With a sigh, I slide into my swimming trunks and tie the string in a half-assed bow. It’s still too early for this. 

As quietly as I can manage, I walk to the kitchen, careful not to wake up my dad. Fortunately, he’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so I doubt that I’d be able to if I tried. In the pantry, I have a few options for a quick breakfast. A granola bar seems like my best option. I pull out a few granola bars, a few bags of chips, and a bag of _M &M’s_ before grabbing a plastic grocery sack from the metal box screwed into the wall. I drop the snacks inside, save a granola bar, and pad to the fridge. From there, I grab several water bottles and a bottle of _Fanta_ that’s been in the fridge for a few weeks. 

I have impeccable taste in road trip snacks. 

I follow my usual morning routine as quickly as I can so that I have an extra fifteen minutes to watch some porn and jack off, and I conveniently finish and clean up as soon as I see a pair of headlights pull up to my driveway. Christine. I clamber out of my chair and tie my trunk strings again, grab a pair of sandals from my closet, pick up my beach bag and my snack bag, and head out the door. 

When I reach Christine’s car and climb into the passenger side, she smiles brightly at me, looking awake as ever. Of course Christine is a morning person. 

“Good morning, Jere!” she sings, leaning over to pick up a bag of _McDonald’s_. “I took the liberty of picking up breakfast for you, no need to thank me. I figured that you probably ate, like, a _Hot Pocket_ for breakfast or something and needed something more nutritious.” I grimace as I pull out a clear plastic container of pancakes, syrup pouches at the bottom of the bag. I love pancakes, but I didn’t want to get Christine’s car messy. 

I yawn as I set the food on my lap carefully. “Thank you,” I reply tiredly, and Christine puts the car in drive and continues down the road. “Five and a half hours of me helping you discover your true identity. How does that sound?” Christine teases me lightly, glancing over for a split second before turning her attention back to the road. 

“Fantastic,” I say sarcastically, and she snickers. I snap the lid off of my breakfast and drench the pancakes in syrup, one of my favorite food groups. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think?” 

Christine shrugs as she turns on her left blinker, easing onto the breaks before making a left turn. “Nah, I’m awake and ready for the day. How about I talk, ask questions, and you give me one-word answers. Sounds good?” No. “Sure.” She grins widely and picks up speed. “See, you’re already great at it! So, let’s start off early on. You think you’ve been straight your whole life?” 

God, it’s _definitely_ too early for this.

I hesitate as I cut a bite off of a pancake, scooping it into my mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “That’s what I thought,” I tell her, mouth full, “until I met Michael.”

She nods and takes a hand off the wheel to tap her chip. “Hm. Sounds too cheesy. Are you sure you didn’t have a crush on _any_ boys before Michael?” 

“No.”

Christine returns her hands to the wheel and tilts her head. “Huh. Okay. What do you like about Michael? Maybe you just want to be his friend or something, like a friend crush, you know?” she asks as I stab my fork into a tower of pancake squares. “Well, I don’t think it’s a friend thing. I think that he’s cute. He’s funny. He’s really talented. He’s, like, super attractive in every way imaginable, Christine,” I gush, waking up at the chance to drool over Michael. Michael who I’m currently ignoring because he confuses me too much. 

“I’m still not convinced, even though that’s one of the gayest fucking things I’ve ever heard,” Christine snorts, and I blush. Thank God it’s so dark. “Do you think about him... sexually?” 

I choke on a piece of pancake, falling into a coughing fit. I can’t breathe. Christine laughs at me while I’m in pain, inches from death. When I collect myself, Christine picks up a bottle of orange juice in the cup holder and holds it out to me. “Got this for you, too.” I take the drink gratefully and unscrew the lid, chugging it until my throat isn’t a fucking desert. Upon recovering, I try to think of a way to answer the question honestly, because I trust Christine, but I don’t want to be too obvious about it. 

“Yes.” Wow, way to go, Jeremy. Real discreet. 

Christine squeals momentarily, covering it up with a cough and then putting on a serious expression. “Okay. You’re definitely having a little bit of a crush on this Michael kid. I wish I knew him. He sounds perfect for you, from what you’ve told me. Real nerd. Dinosaur shoes? Perfect for you, Jere,” she informs me, and I sink into my seat and eat my pity pancakes.

This is so embarrassing. 

“But how do you know? I don’t want to tell him. I can’t tell him. I’m not going to tell him,” my train of thought screeches to a hault. If I just figured out that I have a crush on this guy, then why would I tell him? I don’t know the first thing about dating, let alone dating a dude. Christine stops at a stoplight. “You don’t have to. It sounds like he’ll tell you before you tell him, to be honest,” she comforts me, but it makes me feel worse. I feel like Michael likes me, but we barely know each other. I doubt he’d want to take the time to get to know me, because I hate me, and therefor, by Jeremy law, everyone else must too. 

The light changed colors after a few moments of silence, and I can’t believe it’s only been five minutes since the trip started. 

This is going to be a really long ride.

———

I “wake up” from my fake nap when Christine pulls into a small parking lot by the beach, a wooden building with changing rooms and bathrooms to our right and outdoor showers in front of us. “You have arrived,” Christine mimics her GPS in a robotic, eerily accurate voice. 

“Jeremy, you can wake up now,” she says, looking over at me. “Oh, nevermind, you _are_ awake.” I pretend to yawn and stretch, my back cracking several times. Christine opens her door and shuts it behind her, rounding the car to the trunk. I follow suit, grabbing my bags before getting out. It’s so hot in New Jersey, and even more humid than Pennsylvania. God, I hate the beach. “Jeremy, you brought sunscreen, right?” Christine calls from the back of the car as I stretch my legs near the front. “Yeah,” I call back, slamming the car door behind me. 

Christine closes the trunk and joins me, taking my snack bag and shoving it into her tote. “Alright. Beach ready. Head out,” she instructs, and we walk away from the car and to the coastline of Ocean City. It’s a week day, so there isn’t a ridiculous amount of people here today. However, a few teenagers and some families occupy the rolling hills of yellow sand, which is littered with broken glass and trash. Lovely. 

“Here’s a good spot,” Christine points a few yards ahead of us, and we set our stuff down. I take out my bottle of sunscreen and squirt a generous amount into the palm of my hand, lathering my legs and arms and neck before taking of my shirt and doing the same to my pale chest. I could probably give anyone within a mile radius of me a tan by how much sun my skin radiates, I’m _that_ white. Has my torso seen the light of day? Probably not. “I’m getting a tan,” Christine tells me, practically bathing herself in tanning oil. “Don’t be like, ‘Oh, Christine, that’s bad for you’ or ‘Christine, you shouldn’t put that on your skin!,’ because I don’t care,” Christine chimes, her Jeremy pretty spot-on. 

I click my tongue at her and shrug. “Not my skin. I’m not the one who’s more at a risk skin cancer because of poor SPF, sun protection options,” I retort in a warning voice, grabbing the sunscreen that I use specifically for my face and rubbing my features until I’m probably white as the sunscreen itself. 

Christine looks over at me and grunts irritably. “Jeremy, dude, do your sunscreen in a mirror. You look like a clown,” she scolds me, stepping closer to me and standing on her toes to rub in spots that I may have missed or places where sunscreen rested in blobs. 

“Today is a detox day,” I say in a calming tone. “No Michael, no thinking about my mess of a sexuality, and no _Tastyland_. Just the beach. And you.” Christine pats my cheek lovingly and falls back onto her heels, moving her sunglasses from the top of her head to her face. “Whatever you say, Jere. Let’s swim!” Christine cheers, her voice high. “Race you.” Christine and I slip off our sandals and sink through the sand as we sprint to the water, which is cold to lukewarm at best. It feels like I’m wading in pee. 

We tense up as we venture into the water, since it’s such a contrast to the hot air around us. “ _Fuck_ ,” I hiss as I step on a sharp rock. Maybe it’s a broken bottle, I don’t know. Christine laughs at me, but then steps on something as well and scrunches her face up in pain. “The agony,” she shrieks dramatically, throwing a hand up to her forehead and falling backwards into the water. I laugh and belly-flop after her, momentarily carefree. Christine is one of the most free-spirited people I know, if not _the_ most. She never seems worried or conflicted or unsure of who she is. Why can’t I be normal like her? 

Christine comes up, gasping for air. “Swimming with you is cruel and unusual punishment. Stop splashing me with water,” I complain, watching as a plastic bag floats by. Christine giggles and sits up in the water, knees under her. She splashes more water at me.

” _Deliberate cruelty is unforgivable, and the one thing of which I have never, ever been guilty of!_ ” Christine cries, her references always well-timed but so dramatic, and I throw water in her face. Dork. “I don’t swim with terrorists,” I joke, sitting back in the water. The sand is soft besides the several rocks that stick up out of it. Christine scrunches up her nose and readjusts her glasses. She also has a hat on, which she moves a bit. It reminds me of the way Michael plays with his hat. 

God, Michael. 

“I’m no terrorist,” Christine replies tartly, crossing her arms. She has a blue one-piece on with little roses on it, which is the only swimsuit she owns, I’m sure. I’ve only ever swam with her twice before, once at a pool party and once at a theatre camp we went to together during Spring Break. 

I bite the inside of my cheek and furrow my brows at her. “You are. You drag me out of my house at six in the morning, then force me to talk to your for five and a half hours, and now you’re making me swim in this gross water. I’ll probably be bright red tomorrow morning. I’ll look like a lobster!” I explain justly, and Christine laughs shortly. “Maybe Michael’s into lobsters,” she chokes, and I splash her with as much force as I can muster. This was supposed to be a Michael-free day, and all I’m thinking about is Michael. 

“Hey, cool it with all the Michael stuff. I’m trying to sort out my feelings here. Let’s play ‘Marco Polo’ or something,” I suggest, and Christine closes her eyes. “ _I did not tell half of what I saw, for I knew I would not be believed..._ ” she quotes, and I roll my eyes.

”Polo.”

———

We pull up to my house just as the sun is starting to set, and I take a moment to appreciate how beautiful nature can be. A pale orange-pink hue colors the sky, drowning the city in beautiful shades of every color I could associate with sunsets. I can’t help but wish I could look at it without worries on my mind and thoughts polluting my head. 

“Thanks for coming to the beach with me, Jeremy,” Christine interrupts, smiling at me. I look over and return her grin. “Thank you for inviting me. I had a great time. Really cleared my mind,” I reply, and she shrugs. “It’s fine if you still don’t know. Don’t feel like you have to figure everything out right now. I’m still figuring things out about myself, so you’re allowed to be confused,” she consoles me. 

I step out of the car and do a mock curtsy. “Thank you for your royal permission, Your Majesty,” I tease, my voice drawn out and over-dramatic. She sticks her tongue out at me and waves. I close the door and wave back, watching as she drives away. 

My day was relaxing and carefree in general, but it was really a time to reflect and try to sort things out. Of course, I’ve made no progress, but at least now I know that I don’t have to have everything figured out right now. I’m a teenager, and that doesn’t mean that I need to know all the answers. I’ll go see Michael tomorrow and pick up my “tradition,” talk to him a bit, and not panic over whether I’m straight or gay or bisexual or whatever the fuck I am. Right? 

Sounds like a plan. 


	9. June 2 - Part 1

I’m only a few hundred feet away from _Tastyland_ and I’m already regretting coming back. It’s not too late to back out, is it? If I see Michael and talk to him again, I’ll really have to come face-to-face with my sexuality. Plus, I have therapy in thirty minutes, and I’ll have to take a taxi. Is that something I’m willing to talk to my therapist about? It’s not like he’d tell anyone, because he’s promised to keep everything confidential, unless I show homicidal or suicidal tendencies. However, he doesn’t need to concern himself with those, because I’ve never entertained any thoughts of the sort. 

I start walking again. Okay, apparently I’m doing this. Why am I talking to myself like I’m about to confess my love to Michael and ask him to date me or marry me? I’m literally just talking to him like I would any other day. With a shaky breath, I turn on my heel and walk up to the stand. Michael isn’t paying attention, but is rather leaning against his propped up hand and scrolling through his phone. How do I start a conversation? “H-Hi.” Yeah, alright, that’s one way. 

Michael’s head shoots up, his hair bouncing and tumbling to the other side. Fuck, this was a mistake. “Jeremy!” he literally cries, dropping his phone onto the counter with a metallic clank. “Holy shit, I got so worried. I thought that I scared you off or that you died or that you hated me.” 

“I’d never hate you,” I find myself spilling with too much passion. God, I’m an embarrassment to myself. Michael grins and pushes a piece of hair behind his ear. “You seriously have no idea how scared I was, Jere,” he rambles, his eyes lighting up. I want to get lost in those eyes. “I wasn’t going to kiss you, but then I was I was like, ‘Okay, guess I’m doing this.’ It sort of just happened and I’m so sorry. I know you said you're straight and that you weren’t flirting with me, but I just couldn’t help myself. You looked so cute and you were so sweet and I just–“

He stops himself and sighs, wiping his sweaty hands on his apron. “Sorry.” I gaze at him sadly and lean against the stand. “Don’t be, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have been leading you on. I’m having a lot of, uh, issues in terms of identity, you could say. It just confused me, I guess. I’m still confused, but at least I know that I’m allowed to be, you know?” I reason, and Michael nods quickly, his hair bouncing again. Why am I telling him this? I shouldn’t have come. 

“I understand. I’d never want to confuse you. If you ever wanna talk about it, I’m here. You don’t really know me that well, but I’m here for you. I hope that doesn’t sound too weird,” Michael offers, and I smile thankfully. “Actually, yeah, thank you. It doesn’t sound weird. Same goes for you. Any midlife crisis shit going on?” I ask, trying to create a joking atmosphere. 

Michael chuckles and shifts his weight to his other leg. “Not really. Just family stuff,” he admits, blinking. “I... Well, my mom and dad aren’t really seeing eye-to-eye at the moment, and it’s kinda my fault. What’ve you been up to these last few days?” I hold up a finger and backtrack. “Hey, don’t play that off. What do you mean it’s your fault?” I ask quickly, before he can try changing subjects again. Michael bites his bottom lip and turns his gaze to the counter, picking at a spot on the metal. “I guess my dad wants me to go into something with medicine or computers or science in general. My mom says that she’s spent my whole life preparing me for a career in music and piano, what with her devotion to my piano and competitions and musically-based college applications.”

I nod slowly and process what he’s saying. We sit in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not awkward. “Sounds tough. I won’t pretend like I understand what you’re going through, but I’m sorry you’re going through it. What do _you_ want to do with your life?” I ask him, and his gaze meets mine. He looks confused. “What do _I_ want to do?”

”Yeah, what do you want to do?” 

Michael furrows his brow and studies my face. “I... I don’t know. No one has ever really asked. I think I’m just waiting for my parents to pick a career for me. They know what’s best for me, after all,” he says sheepishly, and I frown. So Michael’s life is basically being laid out for him, a life that he gets no say in but has to live for as long as he’s able.

”That’s terrible, Michael,” I mutter, scratching my neck. “It’s your life. Sure, your parents know you well, but they’re not the ones living your life for you. Like, you’re the one who has to live with that career every day for the rest of your life. You should have some say.” Michael shrugs. “I guess,” he decides, readjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I don’t really know what I want to do. I love playing piano, and I guess I can see myself doing something with it. However, I don’t see how I could make a lot of money off of it. My dad’s advice would have me more financially stable, I guess, but I’d never be able to do something with blood and guts. Don’t get me wrong, I love gore and shit, but I’d never be able to deal with it in real life.” 

I chuckle quietly and look at Michael admiringly. He’s so funny and cute, damnit. “Yeah, well, science and medicine isn’t _all_ blood and stuff. You could do, like, psychology. You’re good at talking to people and adults, and you make them feel comfortable and familiar. Hell, I’ve barely known you a week and you know more about me than I do about myself sometimes,” I suggest, not really knowing what I mean but knowing that I mean it. 

Michael turns the idea over and smiles. “Hey, that’s true. I could be a _therapist_. But doesn’t that kind of throw away years of piano lessons and money put into it?” he asks cautiously, and I ponder the idea for a second. “Actually, there’s certain therapy that works in music and things like that! You’d be so good at that,” I gush, and Michael’s grin widens. “Hey, that’s actually a really good idea, Jeremy!” he chimes excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “How did I survive these last two days without you?” 

I smile and shrug, closing my eyes momentarily. It warms my heart to see that I made Michael so happy. “Where’ve you been, anyways?” he adds on, and I look back up at him. “Uh, went to Ocean City yesterday with my friend, Christine. We swam and stuff,” I recall, and Michael snorts. “I can tell. Your face is super red, and I thought that it was just because you were blushing or something,” he teases me, and I cross my arms. _Now_ I’m blushing. “Sorry that my skin is too _red_ for you, _Michael_ ,” I spit sarcastically, pretending to pout. “I thought you were into lobsters.”

Wait, isn’t that what Christine said yesterday? 

Michael laughs quietly and places his head in his hands, fingers tapping against his cheeks. “Only cute ones with curly brown hair and no muscle definition. Their names have to start with ‘J’ and end with ‘-eremy,’ by the way,” he flirts, and I bite my tongue before I can flirt back. This is exactly why I didn’t want to come. 

“What’s my flavor today?” I change the subject, and Michael straightens up and leans over to look at the menu. “If I’m remembering correctly, it’d be vanilla today, but you already had that. Looks like it’s _Reese’s_. Sound good?” he points, arm brushing against mine. My whole arm goes numb. “Y-Yeah,” I stammer, and Michael starts making it. He pours ice in routinely and looks up at me. “Guess how much money I made the other night,” he prompts me, and I think back to the huge overflowing fish bowl of cash on the piano. 

“A million dollars.”

Michael rolls his eyes and pours milk into the blender. “I wish,” he snorts. “Try nine hundred seventy-six dollars and fifty-seven cents. That’s what happens when a group of drunk rich people get together to bid on art shit.” My eyes widen as the number rolls off of his tongue. “Holy shit, I should go to art auctions and bang on piano keys for an hour. Maybe I’d make half of what you did,” I joke, astonished. Michael chuckles, his shoulders shaking, and empties a white packet into the blender. He puts the lid on top of the machine and runs it for a few seconds, pausing at even intervals. 

“Any plans for today? You look like you’re on a mission, Heere,” Michael inquires, pulling a gallon plastic bag out of a container that’s full of small peanut butter cups. Should I tell him about therapy? That’s kind of personal. For fuck’s sake, Jeremy, you just told this guy that you’re so confused about your sexuality that the moment a dude kisses your cheek you fall into an identity crisis. 

“I have therapy in twenty minutes or so,” I tell him, tapping my foot anxiously. Will he judge me? He probably will. Michael looks up at me as he finishes pouring peanut butter cups into the blender, setting the bag down. “Therapy? Which office do you go to?” he asks slowly, and I try to remember the name of it. “ _InnerVision Therapy_ or something like that?” I try to recall, scrunching my face up. Michael raises his eyebrows, but then goes back to making my milkshake. 

I tilt my head at him. “What?” I inquire nervously, leaning on my toes. He’s definitely judging me. He looks up and takes a deep breath, like he’s thinking. “Uh, because... I go to _InnerVision_ , to be honest. I can’t believe we go to the same place and I’ve never seen you,” he finally says, and my eyes widen. 

“Wait, seriously? You go to _InnerVision_? That’s such a coincidence, what the fuck? I don’t wanna probe, but why do you go to therapy? You don’t have to answer that, sorry. We probably don’t go on the same days. I go once every two weeks,” I tell him, regretting asking such a personal question. However, he’s made it clear that he trusts me, so maybe he’ll actually tell me. 

Michael pulls out a plastic cup and sets it down on the counter, squirting some chocolate sauce along the sides of the cup. “Well, a few things, I guess,” he maintains slowly, reluctantly. “I go for, uh, depression mostly. I also don’t know how to cope with my feelings and have ADHD, so that’s cool.” I instantly feel bad for asking, because it’s pretty clear he isn’t too happy with going to therapy. “I’m sorry,” I state stupidly, trying to be understanding and empathetic. “I, uh, I have an anxiety disorder, so... My therapist seems to think that I’ve developed some sort of OCD because of it, too. It may be morphing into a panic disorder.” 

It’s weird to say those kinds of things out loud, and I know that I get irritated when people feel bad for me because of my mental illness, but I also know that it’s normal. Anxiety is pretty common, according to Dr. Yang. He says that most people who have it don’t even know that they do, and they don’t see the therapist until it’s too late to rewire their brains. Luckily, I’ve been going to therapy since I was in middle school, so I’ve been making a considerable amount of progress. 

Michael’s concern starts to melt away. “Really? I can’t imagine how hard that can be to deal with. Sounds irritating. Is it weird that we both have an array of emotional issues? Like, it seems really cliché, like those _MySpace_ relationships where they’re in love because they both, like, cut themselves or something. I didn’t mean for that to sound insensitive. Wait, no, not because I’m, uh, in _love_ with you or anything,” he quickly corrects himself, blushing as he fumbles with the milkshake’s lid. I chuckle and shrug. 

“Well, I’ll ‘ _rawr X-D_ ’ to that,” I chuckle, hoping that he understands my reference. It’s not as funny saying it out loud. However, Michael bursts into peals of laughter as he gives me my milkshake, unwrapping a straw and shoving it into the drink. 

“What will I do with you, Jeremy Heere?” he asks, still laughing. I smile, but then remember that I have therapy. “Crap, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I promise, stepping back. Wait, I didn’t pay. “Shoot.” I step back up and start taking out my wallet, but Michale shooes me away. “No, it’s on me. Don’t worry about paying for milkshakes, by the way. Or anything else here. I got it. And don’t feel bad about it, wipe that look off your face,” he reprimands me, and I sigh nervously. 

“Fine. See you tomorrow.”

”Don’t melt your milkshake before you finish it, hot stuff.”


	10. June 2 - Part 2

I pay the cab driver as we pull up outside of the therapy building, climbing out of the back seat and onto the sidewalk. “Thank you,” I mutter as I close the door. The car drives away, and I’m left standing awkwardly. 

Right, therapy.

I quickly jog up the pathway and to the door, studying the brick structure before going inside. I think that brick is probably the prettiest building tool that someone could choose to work with. Upon seeing me, Ms. Gene, who works at the front desk, smiles and waves. I pad to the counter and sign in, checking the time on the clock on the wall before penciling it in. “Hi, Jeremy,” Ms. Gene cooes too sweetly, talking to me like I’m a baby. She’s nice, but she’s a little too nice. 

“Good afternoon,” I reply, mirroring her smile before I walk to the waiting room and sink into a chair. I chew on the corner of my nail, not thinking too much about it. It’s just a sort of nervous tick I have, just like picking at my acne and scratching at my arms. 

I only have to wait a few minutes before Dr. Yang sticks his head out of the door from the hallway, his eyes wandering to me. “Jeremy, good afternoon. You ready?” he asks, calm as ever. I admire that about him. I groan as I stand to my feet, smiling at the woman who’s sitting across from me with her toddler, and follow Dr. Yang back to his office. He closes the door behind me as I sit down in the armchair that I’ve been been using for almost five years whenever I come in for appointments. He sets down a stack of papers that I guess he was holding and sits down across from me in an identical armchair, crossing his legs and tapping his fingers against the arms of his chair. 

“How’ve you been since you last came? Any thoughts as to why you can’t stop chewing your nails?” he asks, which is pretty much what he asks every week. My answer is always no, and that hasn’t changed this week. 

Dr. Yang nods and tilts his head. “That’s alright. So, you’re out of school now, aren’t you? How’s that been?” he inquires, and I shrug, shifting slightly. “Alright, I guess. I haven’t had much to do to be honest, and not having a schedule makes me a little anxious,” I reply honestly. I completely trust Dr. Yang, simply because he hasn’t given me any reason not to. 

“I can see why. So what’ve you been up to? You have a lot of friends now, so I imagine you’ve been hanging out with them,” he assumes, smiling widely. I return his grin and nod. “Actually, yeah. I went to the beach with Christine yesterday, and I got ice cream with my other friend Rich a few days ago. I met someone else, too,” I gush, because I love my friends even if I don’t consider them _friend_ friends. Dr. Yang cocks an eyebrow and laces his fingers together. “Oh? Who’s that?” he asks, and I start blushing. I hope he can’t tell. “Michael Mell,” I respond sheepishly, crossing and uncrossing my legs. “He works at an ice cream stand called _Tastyland_.” 

Dr. Yang looks surprised for a second, but then his cool expression returns. “Michael Mell, interesting. Tell me about him. You seem to feel... strongly about him,” he suggests, and I feel my heart skip a beat. God, am I that obvious? 

“He’s really nice,” I state, nodding to myself. “He plays piano, and he’s seriously so good at it. He’s so talented. Michael’s really witty and sweet, and, uh, I guess that kind of brings up a new issue with me.” Dr. Yang sighs quietly and blinks. “Jeremy, they aren’t issues. What’s up, though?” 

“I’m so confused in terms of my sexuality,” I admit quietly, and Dr. Yang pauses a beat. “You know that one of my areas of expertise is LGBTQ+ Counseling, don’t you, Jere?” I nod. “Why am I just now hearing about a problem you have with your sexuality?” I tense up and feel my head start to ache. God, this is embarrassing. “B-Because,” I stammer, trying to find my footing, “I think I like Michael. Like, more than like. I think I have a crush on him. But it’s confusing because, like I thought I was straight. I’ve never met a boy I like or feel romantically about, but then I met him and–“

I can’t find the right words, so I let the following silence fill my lack of dialogue. Dr. Yang hums and taps his finger again. I’m chewing my nails. 

“So, you thought that you were straight,” Dr. Yang echoes, “but you like Michael. Interesting. You know, especially nowadays, a lot more teens are having the same homosexual tendencies that you are. It’s my firm belief that people are born with a certain preference and sexuality, and realizing it is a personal choice that people have to make. I’m not saying that sexuality is a choice, by any means, but studies show that a lot of people who biologically are more likely to be attracted to the same gender either accept or deny their preferences. Weird, I know. It probably doesn’t make much sense, but do you understand what I’m saying, Jeremy?” 

No. “Yes.”

He takes a breath before continuing. “So what I’m saying is that we’re all born with certain sexual or romantic preferences that are engrained in our DNA. We only come to realize it when we’re exposed to that gender or sex. That’s what I’ve studied and what I believe, but others can have opinions. Do you think that you were born with these types of preferences?” 

I can’t really follow his train of thought, but I nod like I do. “Well, I don’t know. I know that I like Michael, that’s all. I’ve never had any, like, homosexual urges until I met him. Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing to say out loud,” I cover my face and huff irritably. Stupid, stupid.

”It’s okay, Jeremy. Sexuality exists on a spectrum. You are who you are, and I’m here to help you figure that out. I have some tests that you could take in your free time if that’s something you’d want to do. Maybe it’d help you out on your journey of self-discovery,” Dr. Yang consoles me, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. I sigh shakily and uncover my face, nodding. I’m desperate at this point. He smiles and nods. “Alright, I’ll make sure to send you home with a few. So, anything else happen this week? Tell me about your trip to the beach yesterday.”

The rest of the session goes on like it usually does, me talking about the last two weeks and pointing out things that make me anxious, how I’ve been getting along in my social life, and how my relationship with my dad is coming along. I only see him for forty-five minutes per session, so we end up cramming the majority of the time. 

When we’re done, we both stand, and Dr. Yang travels to his filing cabinet and pulls out a few sheets of stapled papers, ushering me to the front desk. Ms. Gene pulls up my schedule on her computer and clicks the screen a couple of times, types something in, and then clicks again. “You’re scheduled for the sixteenth of June at three in the afternoon. Does that work for you?” she asks in a high voice, and I nod politely, signing out. I don’t necessarily need to, but it’s a force of habit. I watch Dr. Yang behind her make copies of the sheets he picked up, and he rounds the desk to hand them to me. 

“Don’t feel like you have to take them, and you don’t have to talk to me about your results if you don’t want to. Remember, the results don’t necessarily mean anything,” he reminds me, and I nod, taking the stack graciously. “I appreciate it. See you in two weeks,” I reply with a grin, tucking the papers under my arm and walking out the front door. I see my dad’s car parked in front of the building in a space. 

Apparently he remembered to pick me up today, and he got off of work early-ish. 

I walk down the sidewalk and to the passenger side of the car, opening the door and slipping in. Before my dad can see my papers, I throw them onto the ground, coughing to cover up the noise. He looks up at me and smiles. “Afternoon, Sport,” he booms, and I wince. Too loud. “How was your day?” 

I buckle myself in and wait for him to start driving before I talk. “It was fine,” I say as usual, and he sighs quietly, pulling down the main drag. “Just fine? What’d you do?” I shift uncomfortably and pull out my phone, pretending to check a notification. I don’t have any. “Walked around town and went to therapy,” I respond quietly, and that’s the end of the conversation. Just short of ten minutes later, we pass _Tastyland_ , and I see Michael packing up shop. I roll down my window and whistle at him, not thinking much of it. He looks up and sees me, then waves wildly and whistles back. I roll back up my window and look down at my phone. 

“Is that Michael?” my dad asks, and I nod. Nothing else to be said, I ignore my dad’s rant about making friends and how important friendship is in life. God, I want this day to end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note - i’m sorry if you don’t agree w the way jeremy views his sexuality or the way that dr yang views jeremy’s sexuality, but please remember that this is a fic and that both opinions and sexuality exist on a spectrum!!


	11. June 3

“I don’t understand why you’re the only person who works here and how you manage to work here every day,” I tell Michael as he makes my milkshake. _M &M’s_ today. Michael shrugs and pours a shitload of the candies into the blender, looking up at me. “I don’t have a life. Plus, this job seriously pays so well, and I get to do what I love, which is make ice cream and fuck with my lactose-intolerance,” he explains, and I snort. 

I don’t really know how lactose-intolerance works, but Michael’s must not be fatally serious or anything. Is there even such a thing? “Yeah, but eight hours in the heat? Do you even get a break?” I further, and he turns the blender on for a few seconds. 

“Yeah, duh,” Michael replies, turning the blender off and removing the container from the top. “You’ve just never been here for it. Also, I constantly take breaks to talk to you. I could be doing other things, like serving nonexistent customers, or washing my ice cream scoops, or brushing my hair.” I chuckle and roll my eyes, watching Michael pour the milkshake into my cup and snap a lid on. “Hope I’m not too boring. You make talking to me sound like a chore,” I tease, grabbing a straw and unwrapping it. Michael sticks his tongue out at me and hands me my drink. “I don’t whistle at chores as they drive past in their dads’ white minivans.”

I grow red and embarrassed as I take the milkshake and sip from it. “I don’t have my license. I’m just gonna wait until I’m eighteen, and then I can just take the test and get it over with,” I inform Michael, and he nods like he completely understands.

“Fair enough,” his reply is airy. “I already have my license, but that’s because I’m an overachiever with too much free time. I don’t even have anywhere to drive. I have piano lessons I drive to, but my teacher’s out of town. I drive to therapy. Oh, if it’s not a weird question, how was that?” The sun is baking Greensburg, showing no mercy or discrimination in who or what it burns.

I’m melting. 

“Therapy?” I ask, voice cracking slightly. Michael nods and props his chin up on his hands. “It was fine. Same as always. I like talking to Dr. Yang, because–“

Michael’s brow furrows and he raises a hand. “Wait, Dr. Yang? Short Asian dude with black hair and weird ties?” he asks incredulously, and I nod slowly. Wait, didn’t Michael say that he goes to the same office. Michael laughs and looks down at his fingers, then up at me. “I see Dr. Yang, too. God, Jeremy, stop copying me. This isn’t fair. I want to be a special snowflake,” he chuckles, and I roll my eyes, sipping from my drink. 

Fuck, wait. Didn’t I drool over Michael during my session yesterday? Would Dr. Yang tell Michael about that? No, he wouldn’t. I don’t think he’s allowed to. 

“Y-Yeah?” I stammer, calming myself. “Sorry, not today. Any plans for the rest of the day?” I need to change the subject. Michael hums thoughtfully and nods. “Yeah, my dad’s coming home tonight, so I get to cook. I like to cook,” he says with a smile, and I take a sip of my milkshake. He’s cute, he’s talented, he’s smart, _and_ he can cook? God, anyone would be stupid not to date him. 

I’m that stupid. 

“Back from what?” I ask nosily. “What’re you gonna cook?” Michael taps the metal counter a few times before answering. Why is everyone tapping their fingers? 

“He had a business trip of sorts, just a few days,” Michael explains, tilting his head. “He does international business shit. Did I tell you that both of my parents are immigrants? Well, my dad’s a second-generation American, but his Ecuadorian roots are pretty deep. My mom’s Filipino. You can imagine how fun it was growing up in a household with them.” 

I chuckle quietly and gaze at Michael, who’s readjusting his hat again. He’s so funny and interesting. “So, I think I’ll probably cook the staple of Ecuadorian cuisine, in my opinion, which is _llapingachos_.” I give him a weird look, and he realizes that I have no idea what the fuck that is. “They’re like little potato cake things, I don’t know. Patties? They have cheese. You can serve them with chorizo, rice, eggs, avocados, whatever. It’s so good,” he describes the dish, mouth watering. Fuck, he’s cute. 

“That sounds really good,” I note, picturing Michael in the kitchen actually making food. Probably for me. I eat a lot. Michael nods and taps the metal counter again. “I’ll have to make you some. Would you want some?” he asks sheepishly, and I nod. 

“Duh. Good shit,” I reply with a smile, and he mirrors mine. “Great. So, tell me about your family. We gotta get to know each other better,” Michael jokes, and I shrug, taking a sip of my drink. “Yeah, true. Uh, my dad’s white. Super white. Probably from every European country. I think he’s Irish, Scottish, German, maybe Canadian, who knows?” I try to remember the family tree thing I made my freshman year for Biology. 

Michael nods and studies my face. “Huh. What about your mom? I feel like you’re a little bit Welsh or something. Maybe Danish. Seems exotic,” he guesses with a small snort, and I can’t help the fact that my smile widens at that. “Well, my mom left a few years ago,” I say emotionlessly. I’ve pretty much gotten over it, but it’s not exactly a great addition to the conversation. Michael frowns and scratches the side of his head. “Oh, shit, sorry.” 

I quickly nod and shake my hand. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m over it,” I assure him. “I think she _was_  Danish, actually. We didn’t grow up with anything other than English or whatever. Like, I’m not bilingual. I’ve taken two years of French, but that’s it.” Michael grins and nods. “Say something in French!” 

God, I guess I’ve forgotten everything. Hours of laboring over French work for nothing. Okay, textbook French, Jeremy. “Uh... _Je ma’ppelle Jeremy_ ,” I say uncertainly. “That’s, uh, I think that’s ‘my name is Jeremy.’” Michael rolls his eyes. “I could’ve told you that. Say something else.”

Let me try to remember some flirty things from that one chapter. “Hm, _sourire magnifique_ ,” I butcher, smiling and pointing to the corner of my mouth as I smile. “ _Jolis cheveux_.” I point to my hair. I hope he thinks I’m talking about him. He’s hanging off of my every word, mouth agape. He’s so pretty. “Uh, _tu es très attirant_.” My French is so bad and not meant to be conversational, so I’m not sure if I conjugated that right or not. Michael nods and grins. 

“I wish I knew what you were saying,” he notes breathlessly, then clears his throat and leans back. “ _Creo que eres tan hermoso, y eres talentoso. Tus ojos me roban todos mis palabras_.” He takes a break and thinks for a moment. “Uh, _des... desearía que estuvieras aquí, que se podía ver lo que veo_.” 

I nod and pretend like I know what he’s saying. “ _Sí_ ,” I laugh, and he laughs too. He looks sad. “What did that all mean?” Michael takes a minute to reply. “I don’t know, something about friendship I think. My Spanish is a little rusty, but I took it for four years online. Plus, my childhood was basically my parents screaming in different languages, trying to persuade me to learn one or the other,” he hesitates, and I feel like he’s lying. If only I either understood Spanish or could remember what he said and look it up on _Google Translate_ later. “Well,” I say, taking my phone out to look at the time, “I should probably get going, sadly. Christine’s making me go over for dinner. Don’t forget my l... _la pinguas_?”

Michael chuckles airily. “ _Llapingachos_. Wouldn’t think of it. Have a great day, Jeremy. Don’t melt your drink before you finish it, hot stuff.” 

With that, I’m walking down the sidewalk and to Christine’s house, and I guess that I’ll be a little early. I showed up at _Tastyland_ a little late today, but just because I fell asleep before lunch and didn’t wake up until late. However, I enjoy talking to Michael a lot. He’s a sweetheart, and I think that I’ll be taking those tests Dr. Yang gave me later tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some translations that are probably incorrect bc my spanish is meh and my french is oof 
> 
> sourire magnifique - beautiful smile  
> jolis cheveux - pretty hair (yes there are other ways to say it)  
> tu es très attirant - you are very attractive 
> 
> creo que eres tan hermoso, y eres talentoso - i think that you’re so beautiful, and you’re talented  
> tus ojos me roban todos mis palabras - your eyes steal my words (or something like that i hate my spanish book)  
> desearía que estuvieras aquí, que se podía ver lo que veo - i wish that you were here, that you could see what i see
> 
> sorry if i butcher anything i’m french and don’t speak it well and my spanish is iffy so don’t judge 
> 
> ++ ik that a lot of writers have michael speak bits of tagalog or filipino (not in reference to the nation, but rather the official language of the phillipines along w english), but i’ve always imagined michael’s dad having ecuadorian roots and spanish being a language he grew up with??


	12. June 4

I tap my finger against my desk nervously, a pen in my other hand poised above the stack of papers in front of me. I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head.

I don’t want to take these tests.

If I could press some magical button that’d tell me everything about myself, I’d slam that bad boy in a millisecond. Instead, I have to fill out stupid tests and quizzes and hope that I agree with the results. These papers are mocking me; they’re staring back at me like they _know_ what I’m thinking. Like they _know_ who I am.

Am I supposed to be comfortable with this? I thought that self-discovery is supposed to be all about being _comfortable_ and _happy_ with who you are. Why do I feel so... _uncomfortable_? Why do I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience right now? 

I irritably slam my fists into my desk and fall into my crossed arms, grunting obnoxiously into my sleeves. God, this is horrible. This is awful. Is there any other way I can do this without taking tests that may or may not have meaningful results? I pause and sit back up, picking my phone up off of my desk. Isn’t Rich bisexual? Jake’s dating him, right? I don’t even know Jake’s sexual orientation. One of them should be able to help me figure out whether or not I’m gay, right? Or if I’m not straight. Jesus, I don’t even know anymore. 

I pull up Rich’s contact name and tap the phone icon next to it, holding it up to my ear nervously. Rich is really weird, and he’s not really my _friend_ friend, but I don’t think he’ll judge me for this. The line rings a few more time before I hear static, then Rich’s voice. “Jere, hey,” he picks up, followed by a cough. I tap my pen against the desk quickly and bite my bottom lip before saying anything. “Hi. Uh, I have a question for you. It’s kind of weird, but I’m going through a rough patch and need someone who, uh, went through the same thing,” I explain crudely, and I hear Rich chuckle breathily. 

“Look, if you’re having a problem getting bonerth, I know a guy–“ I drop my pen and bring my hand up to my face, which is getting warmer with each word. “God, n-no, Rich,” I stammer, interrupting him. “Rich, stop. Please, no. I’m not... No. Listen, uh, it’s not that.” Rich stops talking. “I’m having an issue with my, ah, sexuality. When did you know that you were bisexual? Like, how?” 

Rich stays silent for a while, like he’s thinking. I hear him sigh quietly. “When did I realithe I wath bithexual...” he echoes. “Uh, not thure. I think I kinda alwayth knew. We’re not in the thame boat though, Heere. I think you have a cruth on that ithe cream dude.” I blush even harder and pick up my pen, tapping it against my desk. “That’s why I called,” I admit sheepishly. “How do I know if I’m gay or bi or whatever I am? I’m so confused. I know we’re not super close but I need help and I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this.” Rich giggles and I hear fabric rustle, like he moved the phone. 

“Okay, I thee. And Jere, I conthider uth good friendth by the way. Tho, I think that thexuality exith-t-th on a thpectrum. You may not be gay or thtraight or even bithexual, Jeremy. It’th different for everyone. Do you like the guy from _Tathtyland_?” Rich informs me, but he sounds like a broken record to me.

I’ve heard the same thing from every other person. However, I nod and stare up at my black computer screen, looking at my reflection. God, we’re barely a week into summer and I’m already having an identity crisis. 

“Yes, I like Michael. I think. I won’t tell him, but that’s not really what this is about at this point. It‘s more than that, Rich. My whole life, I’ve only liked girls. The moment a dude starts flirting with me, I crack. I just want to know what’s happening. I don’t even know who I am anymore,” I ramble, not being able to help myself. I’m getting really worked up. Maybe I should’ve just left the question of my sexuality in the back of my head after all. On the other end of the line, Rich clicks his tongue. We sit in silence for a few beats, but then Rich continues. 

“You don’t have to figure out your orientathion right now. You’re theventeen. If you like Michael, then you like Michael. Why ith it tho important that you figure it out right now, Jere? That’th the queth-tion you thould be athking yourthelf.” 

The statement resonates with me, and I let it sit. Maybe Rich is right. Why is it so important to me that I figure out my sexuality? Besides, nowadays, the spectrum of gender and sexuality is so vast that what I’m feeling probably shouldn’t have an exact label. Who says that I have to have a label, anyways? “Thank you, Rich,” I finally say, readjusting in my seat. “You’re right. I... I shouldn’t feel the need to put a label on it. I gotta go.” Before Rich has the chance to say anything else, I hang up, setting my phone back down on my desk. I look at the stack of papers and smile. 

I don’t know who I am or what I am, and neither do those papers. 

I take the stack and shove it into a desk drawer, then push my chair back and stand up slowly, stretching my back. It’s about eleven in the morning, and I’m craving my daily dose of Michael. Oh, and a milkshake. 

———

Smiling, I walk down the sidewalk and approach _Tastyland_ , looking at my shoes before looking back up at Michael. 

Wait, that isn’t Michael. 

My expression completely shifts as I study this new face. It’s another boy, probably a few years older than I am, but he’s shorter and more stout. “Hi, welcome to _Tastyland_ ,” he greets me in a monotonous voice. I grimace and shrink back a bit. Every ounce of confidence and excitement that I had been feeling instantly melts away. “How can I help you?” My mouth is dry as I try to study the menu and figure out which milkshake I’m supposed to be drinking today. 

“Is there a problem?” the guy asks, leaning against his arm. I quickly shake my head and try to search for an apology. “I, uh, no, sorry,” I stammer, looking back up. “It’s just that, um, do you know where Michael is?” Wow, that was _really_ smooth, Jeremy. 

The guy’s eyebrows raise, and he nods. “Yeah, he called in sick this morning. Asked me if I could fill in. I’m his friend from a physics tutoring group he goes to. Homeschool thing. Do you know him?” he asks, and then brings a hand up to his forehead. “Oh, wait, you must be Jeremy. He told me that you come here every day. He sent me...” 

I blush brightly as he pulls out his phone, probably to pull up his texts with Michael. God, this is so embarrassing. “He said that you have a cheesecake milkshake today. And that he already covered it,” he reads, then sets down his phone and looks up at me. “Are you two dating?” I quickly shake my head and rub my temple. “N-No, sorry. We, uh, have a thing,” I try explaining, but that sounds even worse. “I mean–“

The guy holds up a hand and shakes his head, then moves to make my milkshake. “It’s all good, I don’t judge. Cheesecake milkshake, comin’ up.” He doesn’t have the same touch as Michael, but I guess that he’s done this before, because he doesn’t read a recipe or anything as he pours ice into the blender after measuring it, followed by milk, powder, and a scoop of cheesecake chunks. I wish Michael was making it. Wait, did he say that Michael was sick? 

“Uh, what’s wrong with Michael?” I venture to ask as he pours out my shake. He looks up at me and shrugs. “Don’t know. He just said he was sick and asked me to fill in,” he replies, popping a lid on my drink. And that’s when I get an idea. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you? I just, uh, wanna make sure he’s okay and stuff,” I inquire nervously, and the guy hands me my milkshake, along with a straw. He nods and takes his phone back out. “Yeah, had to give him a ride to tutoring a few weeks back. I might still have his address in our messages... Here it is.” 

He holds his phone out to me, and I take out my own phone to snap a picture of the message. Am I really doing this? “Thanks so much,” I note gratefully, taking my milkshake and copying the address into my map app. “No problem, Jeremy. Enjoy your shake.” 

Okay, so I guess I’m going to check on Michael. 

———

Cheesy, yes, but I picked up soup from _Sun Dawg Cafe_ before following the route on my phone to Michael’s house. By the time I get to Michael’s house, the container is still pretty warm, and I’m not even sure if he’ll like the flavor or not. It was probably a bad idea, and I’m probably overstepping by just showing up like this. However, my anxiety isn’t as controlling when it comes to Michael, which is a first. 

I stand at what I hope to be his front door and hesitate for a beat, then bring my free hand up to the door, curling it into a fist, and then tap it quietly a few times. It probably wasn’t even loud enough. What if he’s not even home? What if he’s sleeping? 

I take it back, my anxiety begins to eat me alive as I wait for Michael to answer the door. I don’t want to have to knock again, but maybe he’s just not here. As soon as I decide to go home and eat the soup myself, I hear the door’s lock click quietly and the door opens, revealing Michael’s tall frame. He looks really sick, to be honest; he has huge bags under his eyes, which look dry, and his face is flushed. His glasses are crooked, and his hair is sticking up in every direction. 

How the fuck is he _still_ so cute? 

“Jeremy?” Michael asks hoarsely, scanning my face. “How... How did you...” He doesn’t finish his question, whatever it is, but he doesn’t seem mad at all. Just confused. 

I swallow hard and hold up the container of soup in my hand. “I, uh, your friend told me where you live. I just wanted to check on you,” I explain nervously, and Michael looks at the soup, then backs up and gestures for me to come in. I awkwardly shuffle past him and take in the aroma of his house, which smells like coffee and vanilla. It smells just like Michael, which is very comforting. He closes the door behind me as I look around what I think is the living room, and I can’t help but appreciate the color coordination. 

“You have a lovely home,” I gush, turning around to look up at him. Michael chuckles, which makes him fall into a coughing fit. When he finishes, he sniffles and smiles softly. “Why thank you,” he chokes. “I didn’t expect visitors, so excuse the mess. Oh, I have something for you.” 

I watch as he slides to the kitchen, and I notice that he’s wearing blue fuzzy socks. Dork. From the kitchen, he motions for me to join him, so I do. My shoes clack against the wooden floor, and I start thinking that maybe they have a “no shoes” rule or something. Michael opens his fridge and pulls out a plastic container with what look like circular hashbrowns in it. “ _Llapingachos!_ ” he beams, setting the container on the kitchen counter and looking up at me. Oh my God, he actually cooked some for me? “For me?” I ask stupidly, setting down the soup and peering into the tupperware. 

Michael nods proudly, taking his soup and popping the lid off. “Duh,” he states, pointing at his soup. “Thanks for the soup, by the way. I love minestrone, and we don’t have any soup here. Plus, I feel like shit. Sorry, I would’ve told you, but–“

I hold a hand up and shake my head. “No, no. It’s fine. There’s no way you could, like, tell me in advance or something,” I interject. “Besides, thanks for, uh, thinking about me when asking your friend to come in for you. I really appreciate it.” Michael suddenly blushes and tries to cover it up by turning around to retrieve a spoon from a kitchen drawer. “What’d he say?”

”Just that you said that you covered my milkshakes and that I had a cheesecake one today. It’s good, but I’m sure you could’ve made it better,” I tease him, and he snorts as he pokes around at the steaming contents in his bowl. “Good. Yeah, that’s Travis. He’s from my homeschool group thing. Physics,” he explains, and I nod. “Yeah, he told me. Does he work there or something?” 

Michael shakes his head and spoons somebody soup into his mouth, keeping his mouth open slightly so that the hot air can escape. “Ah, no.” He swallows. “His dad owns the stand, but he works when I can’t. He didn’t wanna work full time. He looks old, but he’s our age. I think he’s heavy into drugs.” I nod understandably and open the container of whatever Michael cooked, not sure how to eat them or what they’re called. He gives me a weird look and sets down his spoon, then takes the tupperware. “You can’t eat them cold, dummy,” he laughs, bringing them to the microwave and shoving the container in. He punches a few buttons and turns it on. “What are they called again?” I ask idiotically, and he smirks. 

“ _Llapingachos_ ,” Michael cooes, leaning against the counter and looking up at me through heavily-lidded eyes. I smile and laugh quietly. “ _Yah-peen-ga-choes_?” I butcher, even worse than my French. Michael shorts and starts giggling at me. “Try that again,” he says when he catches his breath. “ _Llapingachos_.”

” _Yah-pin-ga-choes_.”

He laughs even harder. “N-No,” he manages, standing up and stepping up to me. I feel nervous all of a sudden. “ _Llapingachos_. Try not to stretch the first ‘a’ sound, and make the ‘- _gachos_ ’ more... natural.” 

“Like... ‘- _gachos_?’” Michael’s suddenly very close to me. “Yeah, here, can I help?” he asks, holding his hand to my chin. I nod, my eyes wide. Holy shit, oh my God, what’s happening? “Say it again. _Llapingachos_.” I swallow hard. “ _Llapinga_ –“ Before my mouth can open all the way, he holds it at a certain spot, and my voice falters. “Smaller mouth. ‘ _A_.’” 

“‘ _A_.’”

” _Llapingachos_ ,” he murmurs, searching my eyes. I’m sweating like crazy. “ _Llapingachos_ ,” I choke, and he smiles proudly. “Hey, yeah! That’s right,” he booms, his voice cracking. He doesn’t seem as sick as he was when he answered the door. I smile proudly and lean back against the counter, but he hesitates a moment, like he’s waiting for something. I’m waiting for something to happen, too, but it doesn’t. I slouch a bit, slightly disappointed as Michael blinks and then backs up, the microwave beeping loudly. 

“ _Llapingachos_ ,” I repeat to myself, and Michael shoots me a content smile as he takes the _llapingachos_ from the microwave. _Llapingachos._

Michael sets the container on the counter in front of me and gestures to them, then continues eating his soup. “They may be hot. Not as hot as you, but still hot,” he flirts smoothly, not really thinking about it. How is flirting so easy for him? “So, what are you sick with?” I ask, ignoring the comment. Michael shrugs and sniffles. “Probably just a cold. I hope I don’t get you sick,” he replies, growing worried. I lean against the counter and smile softly. “It’s okay, I have a strong immune system,” I assure him, but I’m definitely lying. Honestly, I’ll probably feel sick tomorrow, but it’s a small price to pay if I get to see Michael for a bit. 

“If you say so,” he sings, sipping from his spoon. I chuckle and take a bite of a _llapingacho_ , and he was right; it’s piping hot. I try to taste it through the burning sensation of my frying tongue, but it’s near impossible. I breathe hotly and reach for my milkshake. “Hot.” Michael chortles and rolls his eyes. “Told you,” he teases, and then finishes his soup. Holy shit, he ate that fast. 

I blow on the food this time, then take a bite. Oh my God, it’s really good. “Oh my God, this is really good,” I echo my thoughts, and Michael smiles happily. “Yeah? More where that came from. Wish you liked me for more than just my cooking and milkshake-making abilities. I’m not some piece of meat,” he says, clutching his chest like he’s in agony. I laugh and take another bite. “Nerd. I do too like you for more than just your chef skills,” I respond without thinking in advance.

Damnit. 

Michael cocks a brow at me and clears his throat, sniffling. “Yeah? Like what?” he prompts, and I swallow my bite. Why do always dig my own grave? 

“Uh,” I choke, “a lot. You’re, um, smart. You’re witty. You’re, well, you’re fun to talk to. You’re really interesting. Michael, like, you’re so talented and you play the piano so beautifully. I just can‘t believe I know someone so well-rounded and attractive and–“ 

I’m cut off when Michael leans over to me, pressing his lips against mine. 

 _Oh my God. No. Fuck. What the fuck? Oh my God. Holy shit._ This is what everything’s been leading up to. I thought it’d happen in a more romantic fashion, but this isn’t what I expected. Why is he kissing me? Holy fuck, why am I kissing him back? 

Before I know it, I guess one of my hands has decided to wander up to the back of Michael’s neck, pulling him down closer. Holy hell, this is happening. In this moment, I’m not thinking about my sexuality or my anxiety or milkshakes or anything else. 

It’s just Michael. 

Just as I start kissing back with more force, Michael suddenly shudders, then pulls back. My eyes snap open, and then every concern and worry comes flooding back. Oh my God, Michael kissed me. I kissed him. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it _so_ much. Why did he stop? Michael looks at me, speechless, eyes wide and fearful. “I’m... I’m so sorry,” he whispers, terrified. “I shouldn’t have... Oh my God. I, uh, I think you should go. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

In a confused daze, I just stare up at Michael. “What’s wrong? It’s fine,” I assure him, though I’m shaking and close to tears. I’m too emotional. Why am I about to cry? 

Michael notices the tears and starts growing more concerned. He sniffles, and I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s sick or about to cry. “Jeremy, I’m so, so sorry. I know you’re straight and... Jeremy, I’m sorry. I don’t want to make things bad between us, I...” I shake my head quickly and try to smile. “No, Michael, it’s... it’s fine. I’m not...” I can’t find the right words. I don’t know what to think. Should I come clean? He looks like he’s about to faint. “I’m not straight.” 

I thought that it’d make him stop hyperventilating, but I’m wrong. He shakes his head and swallows hard, picking up the tupperware and my milkshake, shoving them hard at me. “No, Jeremy, stop. I know you’re straight, it’s fine. It’s okay that you don’t like me that way. Don’t feel sorry for me. Just... I think you should go. Just go. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you can forgive me. I’m so sorry,” he rambles, pushing me towards the front door. 

What the fuck is happening? 

“Michael, please, _listen_ ,” I plead, still too surprised and confused to fully understand what’s happening. Why is he freaking out? I kissed him back. “Michael, I _like_ you!” I’m standing in the doorway, gazing up at Michael through glossy eyes. “Michael, I like you.” 

Michael just shakes his head and bites his bottom lip. He looks hopeful for a split second, but then sighs shakily. “ _Goodbye_ , Jeremy,” he mutters quietly, closing the door in my face. 

What is going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh i just realized we’re only at the beginning of june... can’t let them fall too much in love yet. they have the whole summer! 
> 
> sorry for this chapter ik people are boutta snap and sorry for the late update but this will resolve soon, maybe


	13. June 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time hop - two weeks

I haven’t been to _Tastyland_ in two weeks. 

Correction, I haven’t seen Michael in two weeks. I actually walked by _Tastyland_ twice on my way to theatre group with Christine, but Michael wasn’t there. Part of me is afraid that he doesn’t work there anymore, but Rich told me that he stopped by a few days ago and he was working. He didn’t say anything about me, but Rich says that he looked incredibly anxious when Rich mentioned me. 

God, I hate this. 

I wish that I hadn’t stopped by Michael’s house two weeks ago. I can’t believe that I ruined our friendship because I thought that something would happen if I stopped by. It did, but why did Michael react that way? 

It’s incredibly painful thinking about the way that Michael recoiled when I kissed him back, how he looked disgusted and terrified and looked like he regretted it deeply. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past two weeks, to be honest. I’m scared that I was bad at kissing, or that Michael thought that I kissed him only because I felt sorry for him. Isn’t that what he said? I can still hear his horrified voice echoing in the back of my mind, telling me that I should go and that I was straight. 

That’s another thing that I’ve been thinking about, too. 

I know that I’m not straight. I’ve had _so_ much time to think, because all I’ve been doing since I saw Michael is laying around my house, playing Flash Games on my computer, writing, watching television, and sleeping. Because of all of this free time, I can’t help but think about my sexuality. I’m not straight, but that doesn’t mean that I know _what_ I am.

Another thing that I’ve been thinking about is how Michael said that he’d see me “tomorrow,” except that that was two weeks ago. I was too traumatized to go back to _Tastyland_ the day after he freaked out at me, and I guess that I just haven’t been able to bring myself to go back. I visited Dr. Yang on Monday, two weeks after my previous session. He asked whether or not I had taken the tests, and when I told him that I didn’t have to, he said that he was proud of me and that he was glad that I had figured out who I was.

Except I hadn’t.

I still don’t know exactly which sexuality I identify with, but I know that I like Michael. Even though I’ve been avoiding him and his cart, I’m still falling head over heels for him. Kissing him felt so _right_ , and it convinced me that I wanted to be with him, or at least that I liked him that way. Why did he push me away? Why hasn’t he come to check on me? He knows where I live, after all, and it’s not that far from where he works. Plus, he’s gotta pass my house every day on his way home. 

With a groan, I push myself off of the couch and pad to the door, slipping on a pair of my dad’s flip flops that he keeps there for some reason. I need to get the mail. 

I open the door and wince as the burning sun melts me on sight. Jesus Christ, how has it gotten even hotter? I make the long, painful journey down my driveway and to my mailbox. The metal burns my hand as I quickly yank it open, and I want to scream because holy shit it’s so hot. There’s a newspaper shoved into the back of it and a small, white envelope tucked next to it. Probably bills. I take out the mail and flip through the two, and my heart skips a beat. 

The small envelope has my name scrawled across the front, and Michael’s name is in the corner. No address, no stamps. He probably dropped it off on his way home today, especially because it’s almost six. Why isn’t my dad home? That’s beside the point. 

Why did Michael send me a letter? 

Part of me wants to cry because he sent me a letter and didn’t come to tell me himself, but the other, more rational part of me is incredibly grateful that he’s even reaching out. He has really neat handwriting. 

I close the mailbox carefully and run as fast as I can up my driveway. I don’t think that I’ve ever done more exercise than I’m doing right now, because by the time I reach my door, I’m completely out of breath. I throw the door open and slip inside, sighing contently as I am reminded of the blessing of air conditioning. I close the door and slide off the sandals, walking into the kitchen and throwing the newspaper onto the counter. I stare blankly at the envelope as I lean against the kitchen counter. 

Do I want to open it? I thought that I was upset with Michael. I probably shouldn’t...

I carefully peel back the flap of the envelope, peering inside. Maybe he sent me anthrax or something. Okay, stop. That’s just fucking stupid. Inside, there’s a wad of cautiously folded papers. Three pieces, covered with writing on the front and back. My breath hitches as I set the envelope aside and unfold the papers. I don’t really know what to expect, but I’m an incredibly curious person. It’ll probably be the death of me one day. 

The first page has my name scribbled across the top, and I admire the way Michael curls the “y” in my name. I can’t help but smile at the several curly lines across the top of the page, like his pen was running out of ink and he had to test the ink. I start reading: 

_I haven’t written a letter in forever, so I’m sorry if I write my paragraphs weirdly or transition at weird spots. I’m writing this on a limb. I know you’re going to hate me for this instead of actually coming to your house and talking it out, but I just can’t right now. Okay, so here goes, an epic journey of our friendship, my sexuality, and my massive crush on you._

I stop and try to re-read the paragraph. It’s a little all over the place, but not everyone is obsessed with writing like I am, so I’ll excuse it. That sounded pretentious. Wait, massive _crush_ on me? 

_When I was younger, I didn’t have many friends. I knew a lot of kids from homeschooling groups I went to as a kid, but I’ve never been that great with people my age socially. I still don’t have a lot of friends, which is why I value every friendship I do have. When I kissed you, I started worrying that I had ruined our friendship, which literally just started. I started freaking out. Like, what if you’d never talk to me again? You said you were straight, but then you started kissing me back. It was so confusing and worrying and made me feel like I was forcing you into something you didn’t want to do, even if you kissed me back._

_Also, I used to date this guy. Well, he’s been my only boyfriend, actually. I’ve never been in another relationship. We dated for a year and a few months, and I thought that everything was going great. However, he’d constantly say things about how he felt bad for me or pitied me, and we never had sex (TMI, sorry) or anything because he didn’t feel comfortable with it._

_Turns out he was straight._

_At the time, I didn’t really think about it. I guess I was just an experiment for him, like a trial-and-error thing. He broke up with me because he had a crush on this girl. I thought maybe he was bisexual, until after he broke up with me, he told me how revolting the relationship was to him._

_Don't feel bad, because, like, I’m in a benter place now, for sure. I’d rather be single than dating a straight guy. I just couldn’t believe that I had dated him so long, that the relationship had meant so much to me, but that it didn’t mean anything to him in the end. It still haunts me. I can’t believe I was so blind and desperate. I loved him to pieces, and he admitted that he didn’t really like me at all._

_We’d talk about our future together, about how we wanted to start a family and get a house together and a dog, too. But no, he didn’t like me like that._

_At first, he told me that he just “didn’t know what he wanted,” like he was confused sexually. That was his first excuse for breaking up with me. However, months later, turns out he did know, and he just didn’t want me, if that makes sense. It broke my heart._

_Tragic backstory, I know. I should get my own video game. It’s whatever. You probably don’t need to know this, but that’s when I started going to therapy regularly. Before then, it was only once a month or less. Now, I go every week. When he broke up with me and called me repulsive or whatever, it really fucked me up. Remember, I basically had no other friends. Kids from the neighborhood and some homeschool group kids, sure, but my boyfriend was everything to me. If he didn’t like me, then why should I like myself?_

_I fell into, like, a huge ass hole. I was so depressed and suicidal and that sounds like something really stupid to get upset about, but it was the worst thing that ever happened in my life. I started self-harming, smoking, getting worse grades... It was awful. I look back on that time and wonder how the fuck I could’ve sunk so low. How pathetic._

_Anyways, enough about my sad excuse of a love life. The way I reacted to kissing you was so ridiculous, I know. I don’t want you to think that it was bad or anything, because it was actually amazing. I felt better then than I had in a long time. Like, everything made sense. Kissing you felt right. However, my thoughts got the best of me. All I could think about was my ex-boyfriend and how he was straight and how you’re straight and stuff._

_It was awful of me, I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry that I haven’t stopped by your house. You have no idea how hard it is to pass your house every morning on the way to and from work. Hell, you have no clue how many times I’ve stood on your porch, almost knocking on your door, apologizing and telling you all of this._

_God, this is kinda hard to write. Not sure why I’m writing so much._

_You know, I don’t really know what I expect to accomplish with this letter. Yeah, I like you a lot. I know you said that you’re not straight, but I don’t want you to, like, just kiss me or whatever because you feel obligated to or because you feel bad for me. If you’re not straight, I’m glad that you’re figuring out your sexuality. If you are, it’s my fault for falling in love with another hetero._

_Falling in love? I’ve only seen you for, like, barely two weeks. Even though it’s been two weeks since I’ve seen you. Also, I hope that you enjoyed the llapingachos. I did make those just for you. They weren’t leftovers or anything._

_So yeah, I guess that’s all I wanted to say. Sorry that I skip lines when I write, force of habit. And that I have huge handwriting. It’s been, like, a hundred pages. I have huge ass handwriting. Okay, I hope to see you soon. I have a competition to go to tomorrow at Bryn Mawr College, and that starts at, like, twelve. It’s open to the public. Not saying you have to come, especially since I’ve been childish as fuck these last two weeks. I’ve been doing an unfathomable amount of thinking, honestly. I’m sure you have too._

_I’ll be back in town on Monday if I don’t see you tomorrow or before then. It’s a four hour drive, and the competition doesn’t end until five. Awards at six. Not driving back._

_Jeremy, I’ll pretend like this whole thing never happened if you want me to. If it means getting to talk to you again, I’ll do anything, honestly._

_Sorry again. I understand if you don’t want to come or see me ever again, but you mean a lot to me. I’d rather be your friend than nothing at all._

_Yours Truly,_

_Michael_

_PS. I almost wrote “yours turkey.”_

When I finish reading the letter, I’m a sobbing mess, but I’m also laughing. God, I love this boy. Like. I like this boy. 

Do I love him? 

I think I do. 

All I know is that I’m going to Mawr to watch him play tomorrow, to forgive him and apologize and do whatever I need to make things right. If he doesn’t want to date me, fine, but I think that I’m coming to terms with my feelings for the first time in a while. I know who I am, what I want, and that I’m gay as fuck for Michael Mell. 

Road trip. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? can’t go a chapter without resolving conflicts?? it’s more likely than you think 
> 
> prepare for a rollercoaster friends


	14. June 19 - Part 1

Only for Michael would I be awake at two in the morning, calling any taxi service I can find online and asking if they’d be willing to take me to Bryn Mawr. Many of them say that they can take me halfway, but for a small fortune. God, my dad’s right; I should learn how to drive. 

Finally, I manage to get a ride to Harrisburg for less than a hundred dollars, but the guy’s probably a serial killer. If I wasn’t such a huge fucking baby, I could always ask Michael to ride with him. However, I _am_ a huge fucking baby, guilty as charged. The man agrees to pick me up at five, which is in three hours, so there’s no point in sleeping. I hang up and calculate the distance from my house to Harrisburg, then look up taxi services in Harrisburg. I call around, though not many people are awake at this ungodly hour, but I manage to find another driver who can take me to Bryn Mawr College for less than a hundred dollars. If I’m right, I’ll get to the college with maybe an hour to spare. However, I know that traffic is going to be killer, so I’m grateful for the wiggle room. 

When my dad got home yesterday, I told him about the competition, and though he wasn’t all that thrilled, he agreed to let me go as long as I could stay wherever Michael was staying and get a ride home with him. 

Not sure if I can keep up that end of the bargain. 

I take time to pack for the day and for the night, packing up what’s left of my bar mitzvah money, which is a lot because I know how to budget. I decide to use my backpack for school, since I don’t travel a lot and have no suitcase. From my closet, I take out a shitty t-shirt and a flannel top to throw over it, plus a hoodie in case it’s freezing cold. I pull out my drawers and pick out some underwear, a few pairs of socks, some pants, some khaki shorts, and whatever else I’ll need. Pajamas. My pillow. A blanket. Phone charger. Ear buds. My dignity. 

This is nerve wracking. I don’t know what to expect, especially since Michael probably doesn’t think that I’m coming. I guess I have a while to think about what I’ll say or how I’ll excuse my shitty behavior and my avoiding him on the way there, but I can’t help but worry. I pull my pajama shirt over my head and let it fall to the ground, replacing it with a white undershirt and pulling a nice button-down out of my closet. Being in school plays has come with a demand for dressing nicely from time-to-time, so I own several white button-down shirts that I iron in my free time. 

Clearly, I’m a very interesting person. 

I button up my shirt and curse when I run out of buttons but have an extra button hole at the top and an extra button at the bottom. Repeat. 

From my closet, I also pull out my soft blue pullover, which is probably the most comfortable article of clothing that I own.

I take my pink bow tie out of my underwear drawer and pull it through the collar of my shirt, letting it hang loose until I get a chance to figure out how to tie it. When my dad had bought me that pink tie for my aunt’s wedding, he had also decided that a pink bow tie would work well as back-up in case everyone else was wearing bow ties.  

I pull a pair of khaki pants out of my dresser drawer and pull them up over my briefs, buttoning them and tightening them with a black belt. Not my most color-coordinated outfit, but it’ll do. I try to debate over whether or not I actually need this tie, and I decide that it wouldn’t hurt. My outfit is kind of all over the place: soft blue pullover, white button-down, black belt, khaki pants, light pink bow tie, and I think I’ll probably wear my saddle oxfords that I insisted on buying last year because they fit my aesthetic. I probably look like an old dude who’s super into bowling, but it’s comfortable as fuck. 

As quietly as I can manage, I tip-toe down the hallway to my bathroom, then shut the door behind me. Unfortunately, I have no motivation to masturbate, so I settle for washing my face and trying to ignore how tired I feel. I’ll probably regret riding in a car for five hours in the Pennsylvania summer heat, but it’s too late to change. Besides, I’m already all buttoned up. I brush my teeth carefully and pull out my phone, looking up a how to tie a bow tie. 

I’m really looking to change things with Michael today. It hasn’t been long since we’ve met, but he’s caused so much strife in terms of my sexuality that it’d be a shame if I _didn’t_ date him, or at least let him know that I really _do_ like him and I don’t feel sorry for him or anything.

It’s a big day for Jeremiah Heere, your friendly neighborhood “heterosexual,” I suppose.

———

“Sorry that I can’t take you all the way to Bryn Mawr, kid,” the taxi driver says as he hauls ass down my street, causing me to sink my nails into the backseat’s fabric.

Jesus Christ, we’re going to get a ticket.

“Oh, uh, it’s fine,” I stammer, tired and nervous. “I wouldn’t expect you to be able to. I r-really appreciate you picking me up so early, though.” 

The driver chuckles dryly and remains silent for the next ten minutes, leaving me alone in the backseat with my thoughts. For some weird reason, he tells me that I can sleep if I need to, but that he has to stop for coffee or else he’ll fall asleep himself. I eventually find myself falling asleep, just because the lull of his weird Irish music in the background bores me half to death. 

Long trip. 

———

I awake with a jolt, shooting up and breathing heavily. Shit, what time is it? Where am I? 

“Alright, kid. Harrisburg. You were really knocked out! I tried wakin’ you up when I stopped for breakfast, but you was out,” the taxi driver chuckles heartily, and I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I think it’s been over three hours since I started this trip. “Okay, thank you,” I yawn, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. I pull out whatever he tells me I owe him and get out of the car, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and closing the door behind me. He honks amiably and pulls ahead, probably ready to head home for the day. Poor guy. 

I sigh and look around me. I think that I asked the other cab to pick me up at a particular gas station or restaurant around Harrisburg, and I rack my memory as I try to figure out which one it was. However, I look up and see a _McDonald’s_ across the street, and I’m pretty sure this is the _McDonald’s_ that I asked the man to pick me up at. With a steadying sigh, I loop my thumbs around my bag straps, look up and down the road, and cross cautiously, not wanting to die just yet. I’d probably get stuck in limbo because of unfinished business if I died right now, anyways. 

As I safely cross the street, I remember that the time I asked the driver to pick me up was nine, and that I barely have enough time to grab something to eat from the gas station and an iced caramel macchiato from _McDonald’s_ because I’m actual trash. 

With a few seconds to spare, I use the bathroom and then step outside, spotting a taxi cab in the parking lot. I trot over, food and drink in hand, and open the back door, smiling at the driver in the rear view mirror. He looks a lot less friendly than my first driver. This is about to be a taxi murder case, isn’t it? 

“Bryn Mawr, right?” he asks, voice gruff and probably the result of years of smoking. I swallow hard and take a deep breath. It’s only an hour and a half. “Y-Yes sir. Is there a _Publix_ or something in the area? Near the college?” I ask carefully, and the man hums thoughtfully. “No,” he says finally, pulling the car out of park. “However, I think that there’s an _ACME_ down the road from the college, five minutes or less. I can make a stop if you need.” I nod and check my phone for any notifications as we pull out of the _McDonald’s_ parking lot.

”Great, thank you.”

———

We pull up to the student parking lot at Bryn Mawr College, which apparently is an all-women’s liberal arts college. I had a little bit of time to do research and calm myself down, work up some courage just to lose progress again. 

Honestly, I’m a mess. 

We’re a bit early, but not too early; I want to find a good seat. Plus, I know that I’ll get lost a few times before figuring out the campus and where the competition is. However, judging by the many families and people in the parking lot, I think that if I just follow the crowds, I’ll figure out where to go. 

“Thanks again,” I tell the taxi driver, handing him fifty dollars and getting out of the car. He drives away and almost runs over a woman in the process. The smell from the bouquet I grabbed from _ACME Markets_ a few minutes ago clogs my nostrils, and I start worrying again. What if Michael doesn’t want to see me? I mean, he _was_ just telling me that he’d be out of town for the weekend, after all. What if I’m stuck here with no one to stay with and not enough money to get by for a few days? What if I get stranded here? What if I lose my wallet and don’t have money to get home? 

God, it’s so hot. The pullover was a huge mistake. 

I take a breath and shakily follow a few groups of people onto the sidewalk that lines a side of one of the school’s buildings. I’m sweating profusely and staggering behind strangers who’re talking about music and judges and songs and piano and shit. I’m definitely out of place, but everyone else is dressed like I am, so that’s a relief. I blow a strand of curly hair out of my face and readjust my bag, which is heavy for some reason. It’s stuffed with clothes and shit, and even though I took out my blanket and my pillow before leaving, it’s still full. 

The people I’m following walk into a huge building with a sign sticking out of the ground that says something about the competition being inside. God, I’m lost as fuck. I hope that I can find a map of the campus or the building or something, because all of these people are walking down a hallway that has a piece of paper above the doorway that says “PRACTICE ROOMS THIS WAY.” Practice for piano? Piano practice? It’s a bit late to practice, isn’t it? I smile as I think of how Michael is probably already back there practicing whatever piece he’s playing for the competition. I wonder if his parents are here, but then again, it’s a Tuesday. I doubt it. 

Screw it. I turn around and follow some of the crowd into the hallway, which is empty until it leads into a larger hallway with walls that are lined with tons of small doors. I hear the faint sounds of several pianos being played at once, dozens of songs clashing as competitors practice. Each door has a small glass window, through which I peer to see whether or not Michael’s in any of them. 

Maybe Michael’s not even in the rooms, which apparently have different styles of pianos to suit the players’ preferences. Some of them are tall and brown, making deep ringing noises, while some are polished and brown and long with bright white keys and new-sounding notes. 

How are there so many styles for one instrument? 

I start doubting my choice to come down this hallway when the music starts fading and rooms are no longer being occupied at this end of the hallway. Just as I start thinking that Michael isn’t actually here, I see a door open a few rooms down, and a familiar head of curly, very dark brown hair leans out of the room, looking down the opposite direction. My breath catches in my throat. 

“Michael!” 

He turns around quickly, and I can see his huge, surprised grin from where I’m at. I close the distance between us by running to greet him, stopping in my tracks before I end up doing something I’ll regret. 

“Jeremy, hi!” Michael chimes excitedly, studying my face and laughing. “Y-You came?” 

I nod and feel close to happy tears. Thank God he isn’t mad. “Of course,” I reply breathlessly. “I’m just so sorry, I’ve been acting fucking ridiculous, and... Can I kiss you?” 

Fuck, where did that even come from?

Michael’s smile doesn’t falter, though, and he pulls me up by my shirt collar and gently pecks me on the lips. It’s almost like any doubts about our friendship that both of us have melt away, and I’m finally happy and carefree. “I only kiss my favorite customers,” he jokes breathlessly, adjusting his glasses. He disappears back into the room and comes back out with his arms full of his sheet music. 

“Here, come put your stuff in my car. Competition starts in thirty minutes. God, that fuckin’ letter...” 

I feel like the last two weeks didn’t even happen. We’re close and uncharacteristically anxiety-free, especially for two losers that have barely know each other for a few weeks. This is all so new. I don’t know what we are or where this will lead, but I’m happy. God bless this boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh i’m inconsistent i want to update update update


	15. June 19 - Part 2

School hasn’t even been out for a month and this is already more adventure than I’ve experienced my entire life. It’s insane how much one person can change my life. 

That one person is currently introducing his pieces to the judges and smiling up at me. I grin and wave back, not caring that some of the parents or teachers or whoever the people in the audience are look at me as I do so. I can’t help but wonder what that kiss in the hallway means for me and Michael, but I have time. I haven’t known him for that long, but I’d probably jump off a bridge if he asked me to. 

I’m a mess. 

I can’t really hear what Michael’s saying, but he’s not talking to the audience, so it’s okay. He’s focused on the judges, who are sitting at a small wooden table a few feet from the foot of the stage. Three of them sit, back straights, pens poised lightly above their scoring sheets. Michael took the liberty of making copies of his music for each of them, as well as gave them his original piano books for good measure. Before we had gone to the theatre area, he had explained the in’s and out’s of the competition, which I did my best to listen to but couldn’t help but think about other things instead. 

Michael’s shoes click across the wooden stage, the quiet sounds echoing off of the walls of the auditorium as he pulls out the piano bench and positions himself as needed. He looks so fucking professional. 

How did I even stumble upon this gem? He works at a fucking _ice cream stand_. The day school let out, I’d never even guess that I’d be here, watching a _piano competition_ in Bryn Mawr. This is some fairytale shit. I can’t believe that this is happening. Michael plays what I can only guess is a warm-up, but it still sounds like a damn masterpiece. Fuck, he’s so talented. I’d never complain again about anything if I get to date this work of art. 

Michael pauses after he finishes warming up, takes a breath, and then melts into his first piece. Michael told me that he had to pick two pieces of music, both of which were from sections predetermined by the judges. That way, no one had an unfair advantage, and everyone had an equal opportunity to play difficult songs. The first one was something about an orange I think, or at least that’s what it sounded like Michael told me. I don’t know, I can barely understand English, let alone whatever language the song’s title was in. 

What I do know, though, is that it’s quiet and at the low end of the piano, and Michael’s playing so fucking fast. The notes are so low, in fact, that if Michael wasn’t so talented, the notes would probably all sound the exact same. It’s so quiet, and I even see some people lean forward to hear better. I find it incredibly entertaining. Oh my God, though, I wish I could keep up. I haven’t heard him actually play his songs, and he’s playing so fast that I’m afraid the keys are going to fly off the piano. As the piece gets quieter, it gets louder, then quieter, and then sounds like a fucking crack of thunder. My seat vibrates with the sounds of Michael’s playing. He hasn’t made any mistakes to my knowledge, and if he has, I can’t tell. Everything sounds so fucking good. I watch the judges write down a few things before looking back up and watching him with impressed looks from what I can tell. 

They better be impressed. 

Michael’s hands travel to the middle of the piano at an ungodly speed as he plays a few broken chords, banging on the keys so that they clash extravagantly and create the sound he’s going for. I hope. The entire song sounds like a damn storm, and it also feels like one because the whole auditorium seems to be shaking. I want to cry because he sounds so amazing. How could I have ignored him for two weeks straight? 

The song gets the slightest bit slower, and now I can pick apart which hand is playing what. Michael’s right hand tickles higher keys, though it’s still traveling around the center of the piano. His left hand is playing the same notes over and over again at the leftmost end of the piano, faster than his right hand. I can’t keep up, but I do know that whatever he’s playing doesn’t sounds easy at all. In fact, it’s probably one of the most difficult pieces I’ve ever heard, and I don't listen to much piano or classical music. 

Just when I think that the song’s mood is changing to a higher key, Michael’s hands shoot from the highest keys back to the lowest ones. This song is a fucking rollercoaster. Finally, not even much over a minute later, the song slows down, and the notes that Michael plays sounds like they’re winding down. In fact, he’s only playing a note at a time now, one of his hands poised above his left leg. All of a sudden, he’s playing multiple notes again. God, I’m lost, but it’s intriguing. I have a different level of appreciation for piano now, and that’s all because of some _Tastyland_ employee.

He plays a few chords that sound like they’ll stretch out, but he ends them early by lifting the foot pedal thing that I can’t remember the name of. I guess that the song’s done, though, because he picks his hands up, takes a breath, and sets them in his lap for a moment. 

From where I’m sitting, I can see Michael’s chest rise and fall slowly. He’s probably sweaty as fuck, because I know I am. No one claps, which is weird to me, but before I can think too much about it, the next song starts.

By comparison, this song is so much slower. Maybe it’s supposed to be fast, but Michael’s interesting and personal take on his music never ceases to amaze me. I say that like I’ve been listening to him play the piano for years, even though I’ve heard him play twice. It’s just the effect he has on me, I suppose. I enjoyed the pace and energy of the other song more, but this song is sweet and sounds like people with huge white wigs and frilly gowns would dance to it. The audience adjusts to the change in style and sound as the song progresses. I watch in amazement as Michael moves his left hand with ease from the end of the piano to the center, then back to the end. 

It’s honestly so fascinating.

The way Michael’s fingers dance across the keys quickly one moment and then gracefully the next impresses me greatly, and my head spins as I listen to the rest of the song. He plays two parts twice, which he’s probably supposed to do. Every note sounds perfect, and he never changes his impeccable posture and stage presence. I’m entranced. 

Towards the end of the song, Michael’s right hand travels up an octave and then back down, and the keys clash together melodically as he ends the piece with finesse, snapping his wrists pointedly before picking them back up and setting them in his lap. He takes another breath, scoots the bench back with a loud screeching noise, and stands up, walking to the center front of the stage. He bows quickly and straightens back up, and everyone starts clapping. I follow suit, trying not to scream proudly as I watch Michael walk off, properly poised, but then pick up his pace with a sense of urgency. Confused, my glance follows him out the door, and people start murmuring quietly as the judges scribble away at their papers. 

I stand up silently and shuffle out of the row I’m sitting in, which is only occupied by three other people. Michael quietly throws open the doors and slips out, so I walk as quickly as I can to follow him and figure out if everything’s okay.

I almost lose track of him as he leaves the auditorium, rounding a corner and stumbling down an hall. I’m really confused, but follow him anyways. Is this overstepping? This is overstepping. My shoes make loud noises as I pad down the hall, betraying me. Michael turns suddenly into a bathroom, and I do the same a few seconds later. Upon finding him, I see him shaking over a sink, knuckles white with pressure from how hard he’s gripping the counter. He’s sweating, or maybe copious amounts of water are just pouring from his forehead. 

“Michael?” I peep, hoping that no one else is in the room. My voice startles me as it bounces off of the tiled walls, and it spooks Michael, too. He whips his head to look at me, and his expression calms slightly. “Jeremy,” he replies quietly, sniffling. Is he _still_ sick? I let the door swing shut behind me and walk over to him, looking up at his drained face. “Everything okay? You were absolutely stunning,” I gush, reaching up to put a hand on his shoulder. I feel him tense up slightly, but he doesn’t shake my hand off. Instead, he looks back into the mirror, and I look back with him. 

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he whispers, voice cracking. It’s not okay, apparently. “You don’t sound happy with yourself,” I venture, rubbing his shoulder carefully. “What’s wrong?” 

Michael rolls his eyes and sniffles again, shaking his head. “I just... God, I listen to those other kids play and then I listen to myself and they’re leagues above me. I don’t do a great job sticking to what the piece says to do, and I guess that’s a blessing and a curse. I can get really bad stage fright, and I was shaking so hard while I was playing. It’s infuriating. I come to all these competitions and I don’t get any better. I don’t expect you to, like, _completely_ understand, but it’s just... I hate it.” 

I bite my bottom lip and nod at Michael’s reflection, and he picks up his face to meet my gaze. A tear slips out of the corner of his eye and he moves a hand to swipe it away. “And plus, the whole time, I’m thinking about how silly this is,” he muses, laughing dryly and motioning from me to him. “So dramatic. I met you not even a month ago and fucked up your life in what little time I’ve known you, and now you’re here listening to me suck at piano. God, my _parents_ aren’t even here. My mom’s the one who signed me up for this fucking competition. It’s like she doesn’t even trust that I’ll do a good enough job to place or anything, because she didn’t take off time from work to come watch. No, some random kid that gets milkshakes from _Tastyland_ every day came to watch me.” 

My heart sinks, and my arm bends slightly. I think my eyes are starting to water. Why is he talking about me like I’m some sort of burden? Like I don’t mean anything to him? “Look,” I finally say, my voice barely above a hushed whisper, “I know that you’re upset, but... I’m not ‘some random kid that gets milkshakes from _Tastyland_ every day,’ Michael. You’re acting like I don’t mean anything to you.” 

Am I really making this about me right now?

Michael sniffles again and pushes his glasses up, resting them on top of his head. “S-Sorry,” he apologizes, rubbing his eyes again. “I’m just upset. You’re right. You mean a lot to me. God, I cried for two weeks every day because I thought you fucking hated me. This is stupid. Sorry. I just don’t like piano competitions.” I stare at him in the mirror, expressionless. That didn’t seem all that sincere, but this isn’t about me. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to like competitions or place in them. You’re still talented and a blessing and really fucking good at what you do,” I assure him, taking my hand from his shoulder and letting it fall back to my side. 

Michael sighs shakily and smiles gently, then lifts up my chin to plant a small kiss on my nose. This is all really sudden and confusing. Are we _dating_? Are we having one of those summer _fling_ things? Doesn’t matter. I’m at Michael’s piano competition, and we have an hour or so to kill because he’s one of the last competitors. We had to sit and listen to hours upon hours of piano players beforehand, each one incredibly talented but nothing in comparison to Michael, in my opinion. 

We leave the bathroom and decide to go for a walk around the campus until six, when the awards start. 

Today has been really weird, but has also kept me on my toes. 

———

“Thanks again to all of the organizers for this competition...” an announcer drones, but I don’t pay much attention. Michael’s holding my hand with extreme force, and I can tell that he’s nervous because his hands are shaky and sweating a lot.

I kiss his cheek unsurely, because I still have no idea where I stand in Michael’s book. However, he looks over and smiles at me, so I guess that that was okay. The announcer continues her speech about how wonderful all of the players were and how talented everyone was, but all I can do is stare at Michael’s nervous features. He reminds me of one of those spelling bee competitors whose parents beat them if they lose with how much he’s worrying about winning. Shouldn’t people play in competitions because they want to improve and let other people hear their playing? 

I guess not. 

“We’ll start with the fifth place winner and work our way up from there, shall we? Please stand where you’re sitting if I call your name, then take a seat when I hold up my hand. Second and first place will come down to the stage to accept their awards when I call for them,” the woman’s voice echoes off of the walls, and every member in the audience leans forward in their seats, myself and Michael included. 

“Fifth place goes to... Jannette Halls, sophomore from Lancaster,” the announcer calls, and the audience erupts into applause. A small girl towards the front of the audience stands and turns around to wave, a huge smile on her face. Her friends and family around her cheer loudly, whooping and hollering. Michael’s hand tightens slightly, then loosens. I can’t tell if he’s glad or upset that he didn’t get fifth place. 

Places for fourth and third go out, but Michael’s name hasn’t been called yet. I can tell that he’s getting worried. I don’t understand why, though, because of the many, _many_ people that had played today, I think that Michael played the best. Maybe it’s just a personal bias, but I hope that the judges agree. Second place would be amazing, too, but I know that he really wants first. Would it be too cheesy if he did win first place? 

The announcer clears her throat and looks down at the podium, shuffling through a stack of papers. “Okay, the second and first place winners were separated by mere points. The judges were incredibly impressed with these competitors’ displays of skills, their stage presence, and their knowledge of their music. Second place goes to Jason Frazier, senior from Altoona.” 

The entire audience goes fucking ballistic. This kid must have a huge family, because tons of people sitting right in front of us leap to their feet and clap loudly, screaming at the top of their lungs. A rather heavyset boy with curly red hair makes his way down the flights of stairs to the stage, where a judge is standing to take his hand and present him with a pretty big trophy. Shit, that trophy is _huge_. Michael’s shaking harder than he was before. 

“You know, even if you don’t win, that doesn’t mean you’re any less talented. Just keep being humble and know that–“ I start whispering, but realize that Michael probably can’t hear me over the whooping in front of us. 

Minutes later, when the cheering dies down, the announcer looks up from her papers and at the gargantuan trophy in the judge’s hands. It probably just looks huge because of the lights, but I’ve never seen a trophy so large. Part of me starts worrying that Michael didn’t place, because many other competitors start leaning forward and waiting to see whether or not their name is called. I don’t know about the requirements or scoring criteria, but I think that Michael surpassed every expectation. Or should’ve, at least. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your _2018 Philadelphia Statewide Piano Competition_ winner...” Everyone is silent, feet tapping, chewed nails, teeth chattering. Michael’s breathing is quick and unsteady. 

“From Greensburg, for the second year in a row, upcoming senior Michael Mell!” 

I watch for a split second as competitors around the room slouch slightly in disappointment, but clap loudly.

Wait, second year in a row?

Some students whoop loudly, looking in Michael’s direction, who’s sitting in shock next to me. “Michael!” I scream, my heart rate picking up. Wait, holy shit, he won? “Oh my God! You won! Michael!” Michael looks at me in shock, eyes wide, then back at the announcer. He jumps to his feet, my hand falling down, and laughs breathlessly. God, he’s beautiful. I start cheering loudly, my voice above the steady hum of the crowd for once, and I’m not even embarrassed. I jump to my feet, and the rest of the audience follows suit. Michael shuffles shyly down the stairs, but I can tell that he’s relieved. 

He climbs up the stairs to the stage and smiles at me, waving. I wave back and scream again as he takes the trophy from the smaller judge, and the trophy doesn’t look obnoxiously large anymore. Cameras snap from the audience as he waves at the crowd, and I can tell from where I’m standing that he’s crying. 

God, I’m so happy for him. 

Michael starts walking up the stairs and back up to where we’re sitting, and everyone starts moving to leave as the announcer thanked everyone for coming. Right now, I could give less of a fuck of what I am to Michael. I don’t need a label. I sprint down the stairs between us, proud tears spilling out of my eyes, and i jump at him and embrace him, causing him to have to hold his trophy in one. He wraps the other hand around my head, pulling me close against him. We aren’t worried and we aren’t confused. We’re happy and proud and relieved, honestly. At least I speak for one of us. 

“Holy shit,” I squeal, laughing breathlessly. I’m just so overjoyed. This may be so random and new to me, but I’m ecstatic. “Oh my God, Michael.” He sniffles happily and nods against my shoulder, pulling back and kissing me like he did two weeks ago in his kitchen. However, he doesn’t pull back this time. I kiss him back, nothing else on my mind except for him and this moment. 

And for the first time since I’ve met Michael, I feel like things are starting to line up and make since. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we at that spicy stuff - there’s gonna be a part three to this day because so much is happening ahh here comes plot twist numero dos
> 
> oh and a quick list of songs! 
> 
> michael’s first song is called “l’orage,” opus 109 no 13, by friedrich bürgmuller. “l’orage,” or “the storm,” is for real a bop and so fast and inspiring. i learned it before changing my mind for a comp and now of course i have forgotten it, rip 
> 
> the second song is a song i played for a literary comp two years ago called “waltz in a minor,” opus posthumous, by frédéric chopin. it means a lot to me because it was the first song i ever learned for a comp and it’s just so fun and you can do a lot w it!! 
> 
> ++ the amount of love and support for this fic is overwhelming and i appreciate it so much!


	16. June 19 - Part 3

“Michael Mell?” a man approaches Michael as we gush about how proud and excited and surprised we are. Michael turns his head quickly, cutting himself off mid-sentence. The man stepping up to Michael has a pretty stout build, but he’s not necessarily fat or anything. He has thin brown hair and a lighter goatee, which makes me uncomfortable. He has one earring and glasses, and he’s looking up at Michael with a huge grin. 

“Hi, Douglass Jenkins,” the man introduces himself, sticking a hand out to Michael. I’m holding Michael’s trophy because I had asked to, just to see how heavy it was, so his hands are free. Michael shakes the man’s hand firmly and returns the smile. He’s good with adults. “Michael Mell,” Michael replies, and Mr. Jenkins nods. “I know. You’ve won this competition two years in a row, to my knowledge,” he comments, and Michael shrugs modestly. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows that he’s talented and gifted. Mr. Jenkins fills the silence. “I’m just here to see if you’d be interested in Philadelphia’s  _Vocal Jazz and Jazz Ensemble Repertoire_. Have you ever heard of it?” 

Michael’s eyes widen, and his mouth falls open. I have no clue what any of those words mean, so I can only assume it’s a pretty cool offer. “Wait, I haven’t even gotten the results back. I tried out, but I don’t know whether or not I made the ensemble. Have they released the result list?” Michael asks in reply to the question. Mr. Jenkins chuckles and nods. “Amongst music companies and staff, yes. However, I just wanted to offer you a corporate sponsorship,” he replies, and Michael literally screams. 

This is all so foreign. 

“Wait, so I _did_ make it?” he asks breathlessly, and Mr. Jenkins holds a finger to his lips. “Confidentially, yes. Results come out in two days, as you know,” he chimes, pulling a card out of his back pocket. “I run a piano shop in Philly, and we’ve been following your career for years. We make regular donations to _PMEA_ , but we’d like to help you out. As you know, it’s just short of four hundred dollars to even travel with the repertoire. We’d like to lighten the load, have you test out our piano selection, maybe play in our shop sometimes. Here, my card.” He hands the card to Michael, who’s shaking. “Give me a call. I’ll take care of everything.” 

Michael looks down at him gratefully. “Oh my God, thank you!” he says breathlessly, and Mr. Jenkins nods, then walks away. What the fuck just happened?

”What was that all about?” I ask, and Michael studies the card in his shaky hand. “Th-The... The Jazz Ensemble... All-State...” He’s so articulate. I look up at him and smile. “That sounds... cool?” 

He looks at me and smiles widely. “Yeah, it is! Ah, results don’t come out for two more days. I didn’t expect to get the part. I had to play some songs. It was pretty easy, but I still didn’t think I’d get the part. We get to play for people and stuff. Looks good for college,” he explains, pocketing the card. I nod like I understand, and we start to head out the building and back to Michael’s car. I feel like I’m missing out on a huge part of Michael’s life, even though I haven’t known him for any time at all. I’m sure I’ll figure a few things out. 

“So, does that mean you won’t be working at _Tastyland_ anymore?” I ask, still confused. Michael laughs and takes my free hand as we walk through the parking lot. It’s hot. “It’s not a job,” he snorts. “It’s just, like... I don’t know. A really cool club. I’ll still work at _Tastyland_. We’ll play in Pittsburgh or something, I dunno. We stay the night for a week and practice, or I drive up there or something. It doesn’t make much sense to me. I haven’t studied it much since I didn’t think I’d make it. I still don’t know if I did.” I grin happily as we reach Michael’s car, and he opens the door for me. 

“Wouldn’t ever think of leaving my favorite customer.” 

———

“You don’t like mashed potatoes?” Michael asks me, eyes wide and full of concern. The waiter looks from me to Michael, confused. I blush and shrug. “Weird consistency,” I defend myself, reading from the _Olive Garden_ menu. “Just broccoli, please.” The waiter nods and takes our menus, telling us that our food will be out soon. 

Michael looks at me and shakes his head in disappointment. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t like mashed potatoes,” he teases me, and I pretend to pout. “Meanie, they make my mouth feel weird,” I say sadly, and he snorts. “At least you’re cute. Forgot to tell you how fucking adorable you look with your bow tie and pullover. Aesthetic. Saddle Oxfords? You’re an icon, Jeremy Heere.” I snicker and take a breadstick from the basket between us. I want to ask about our relationship status, but I’m not worried. In due time. 

“So, I’m actually heading back tomorrow,” Michael tells me, getting his own breadstick. “I said I’d be back Monday in my letter because I have the whole week off. Is that okay?” When we were in the car, I had explained to Michael that I needed a place to stay and a ride home, and he was more than willing to provide both. 

I nod and chew my bread thoughtfully. “Sure. Where are we staying tonight?” I reply, mouth full. Michael puts his bread down and wipes his hands on the napkin in his lap. 

“Only the best,” he declares through a mouthful of bread. “ _Travelodge_ , that is. Luckily, my mom already booked a room, which you gotta be over eighteen to do. However, I do have a fake ID, though.” I glare at Michael and look around, making sure that no one had heard. “Michael Mell,” I hiss, furrowing my brow. “Not so loud. A fake ID?” He shrugs and takes another bite of bread. “Yeah. It’s cool, though. I probably don’t need one. I look pretty old. Plus, you have to be sixteen to check-in. The reservation is for one person, but I’m sure they won’t mind. You’re over sixteen, anyways. If not, we can get a refund or something.” 

I feel guilty. I didn’t mean to cause problems in terms of hotel arrangements. “It’s all good,” he adds, then takes a sip of his water. “Don’t worry. If we have to stay the night in my car, we will.” 

Alright, Michael. 

“Alright, Michael.”

———

This is a pretty good hotel, so I’m not complaining. There’s a bed and a pull-out couch in the room, a bathroom with soap, shampoo, washcloths and towels, and toilet paper. There’s a thermostat and a television, too. Plus, the bed isn’t that small. Maybe Michael will “get cold” or something and we’ll end up having to share. 

“Not bad. I don’t suggest drinking the water, though,” Michael says as he wheels his small suitcase into the room. I grin and shrug. “I will if I please.” 

Michael snorts and rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself, weirdo. I’m gonna take a shower. You can have the bed, if you want. Unless I decide I wanna sleep there. Then you can still have the bed,” he comments suggestively. I blush as he sets his bag down by the door and walks into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door all the way. God, things are moving quick. What are we? I haven’t checked my phone all day, so I figure that I may as well. 

As expected, there are about fifteen text notifications from my dad, asking whether or not I made it. I open my phone and type out a reply, telling him that I’m staying in a hotel room and riding home with Michael tomorrow. Apparently Christine called at some point, and Brooke sent a text asking if I wanted to hang out today (plus a sad face when I didn’t reply for several hours). I call back Christine as I set my bag on the couch, then sink into the bed, stretching out my back. 

“Jeremiah Heere!” Christine screeches after the line rings once, huffing. “I thought you were dead. Where are you?” 

Wait, did I not tell anyone? 

“I’m in, uh, I don’t know. I was in Bryn Mawr,” I say quickly, and Christine clicks her tongue. “Doing what?” I take a breath and roll over onto my stomach. “Watched Michael play in a competition.” Christine gasps and I hear her drop her phone, a loud static noise deafening me. She picks her phone back up and makes a weird noise at me. 

“I thought that you two weren’t talking anymore! You said he... You told me that...” I sigh and shrug. “Yeah. He, uh, sent a letter. Dropped it off. Long story. I’m here now, in _Travelodge_. He’s in the shower,” I explain crudely, to Christine’s dismay. She hums irritably. “Jere, you confuse me. Have fun! If you ever go without talking to me for a whole day ever again I’ll decapitate you,” she warns, giggling before she hangs up. I chuckle to myself and type out a reply to Brooke’s message, apologizing because I “didn’t have my phone.” 

I mess around on my phone for a few more minutes to pass time, and Michael pads out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. He doesn’t have his glasses on, and the towel is dangerously low around his waist. I can’t stop staring at him. 

He’s not skinny and bony like I am, but he’s not unattractive in the slightest. He has soft skin and small little scars across his waistline, then deeper, white scars leading under his towel. Those must be the self-harm scars he was talking about. Cutting? It makes me sad. Michael sorts through his case and pulls out some boxers and a t-shirt, then turns around to look at me. “Stop checking me out, goodness,” he teases, and I blush again. God, stop. “I’m... I’m not,” I retort, and he smirks before returning to the bathroom. He comes back out a few seconds later with his pajamas and glasses on, running his towel through his hair to dry it off. 

“Shower?” 

I look up at him and watch him as he pulls a pair of socks out of his bag. I laugh loudly and roll my eyes. “Weed socks? Are those weeds?” I ask incredulously, and Michael looks at his socks. “You’re making fun of my marijuana socks? Meanie-head,” he feigns offense, sliding them on. 

I laugh and slide off the bed. “Maybe. I’m gonna go shower. Be back,” I promise, grabbing my pajamas from my bag. 

My shower is quick and cold, because all of the hot water is gone, I guess. I dry off and wipe off the foggy mirror to look at my face. I look really happy for once, and that’s great. I reach for my underwear and–

Okay, I forgot my underwear. 

Do I want to go out with just a towel on? Or should I ask Michael to bring me them. “Uh, Michael?” I call, and I hear Michael shuffle around in the room. “Yeah?” he calls back in reply. I hesitate. “Can you bring me my underwear?” I ask sheepishly, and he hums in reply. A moment later, Michael’s back with my underwear. I catch him looking at me and move to shut the door, but he has his foot stuck in the doorway.

“Don’t hide,” he pouts. “You’re cute.” I blush, suddenly very self-conscious. “I don’t like my body, now go away,” I demand, trying to close the door again. This time, Michael shoves it open. It makes me very uncomfortable, but he’s just talking to me. 

“You don’t like your body? Jeremy, dude, your body is rocking. You’re so attractive, you know that? God, if we were dating, the things I’d do to you...” Michael muses, and I shrink back, embarrassed but turned on. Oh my God, not right now, penis. Stop it. “U-Uh,” I stammer, unsure of how to reply. “Like what?” 

Oh. My. God. 

This was a mistake. 

Michael pauses and looks me up and down, opens his mouth, then shuts it. “Another day,” he promises, then closes the door. I’m honestly disappointed, but maybe that’s a good thing. If he’s going to be gone a lot in the next few weeks, I don’t want to start dating and then have him gone. I quickly slip on my school sweater and my sweatpants, typical of my pajama fashion. I dry off my hair as best as I can and hang up my towel, then open the bathroom door. 

“Thanks again for, uh, you know,” I tell Michael, who’s sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, studying his scoresheets that he had gotten back from the judges. I’m great with English, clearly. Michael smiles warmly and pushes himself to his feet, walking over to me and kissing my forehead. 

“No, thank _you_. Do me a favor?” 

I grin and tilt my head. “Depends. Whatcha need?” I ask, and Michael brings a hand to my cheek. It’s cool against my hot, flushed skin. I’m blushing yet again, of course. “The bed’s too big for one person. Sleep with me?” 

Jesus Christ, who knew that a _Tastyland_ employee would become my entire summer? 

“Only if you’re not a blanket-stealer, Mell, which I feel like you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t attack me for my lack of pmea knowledge please ahh i just need a reason for michael to go bye bye


	17. June 25

It’s almost been a month since I met Michael, which is crazy to me. A whole month. At least I can say that I know him better. 

On Wednesday, Michael and I drove the five and a half hours back to Greensburg, but it wasn’t boring or awkward at all. I learned a lot about him, and he learned a lot about me, too. For example, my extensive collection of Michael trivia includes his favorite color, every pet he’s ever owned, and the long list of reasons why he thinks that Bear Grylls is the leader of the Illuminati. He knows a lot about me too now, and things don’t feel as awkward anymore. However, we never talked about what we are now, even though he held my hand several times in the car and kissed me a few times for “good luck.” 

I’m a bit confused, but I’m not going to let the lack of label deter me. Things will be okay. 

I’m on my way to _Tastyland_ , because Michael’s back at work today and I need to catch up on my milkshakes. I’m very behind apparently. I can see the stand from a few yards away, along with Michael eating a sundae. I smile to myself as I near the cart, whistling quietly at him. Michael looks up and grins, spoon in his mouth. “Jeremy, I haven’t seen you here in a while,” he comments, winking. “Where’ve you been?”

I stick out my tongue and lean against the stand. “Went to some cute boy’s piano competition. Did you hear that the ‘Greensburg piano prodigy’ has struck again? First place,” I tease him, and he chuckles, blushing. Blushing is _my_ thing. 

“Yeah? Interesting, I went to a piano competition with a cute boy, too. We stayed in a hotel together. He stole my blanket a lot, but I forgive him,” Michael retorts with a grin, and I bite the inside of my cheek. He always manages to one-up me, of course. “What’s my flavor today?” I ask, looking down at the menu. I can’t even remember what I got last time. Michael leans down and picks up a bright pink sticky-note, reading the scribbles on it. “Looks like you’re at peach, but I scratched that shit out. Brownie,” he declares, and I mockingly applaud him. “Lovely, quite, hmm,” I hum in an obnoxious voice, and he blows a raspberry at me. 

Without hesitation, he starts making the milkshake. However, I feel like something’s on his mind. He keeps opening his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then closes it again. “What?” I ask nervously, and he looks up, pouring milk into the blender. Reluctantly, Michael sighs and sets down the milk. “Well,” he starts, puffing out his cheeks. “Okay. Uh, do you remember that Douglass Jenkins dude? Piano? Brown hair?” 

I nod slowly and furrow my brow. “Did he lie? Did you not make that repertoire thing?” I inquire suspiciously, but Michael shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I did, but–“ I grin widely and clap. “Hey! That’s amazing!” I squeal, and Michael’s mouth curls into a smile. 

“Sweetie,” he notes, unwrapping a package of powder. “Anyways, I called him back, like, after I figured out that I got accepted as the piano player. Apparently my schedule is pretty rough these next few weeks, and I’m supposed to, uh, go up this weekend to Philadelphia to meet with the people who run the piano shop thing. Then some more piano people. And, uh...” 

I frown because I feel like I know where this is going. “And?” I prompt him, and he sighs, but tries to smile. “I, uh, my last day here is Friday.” My heart stops. Friday? That’s in, like, four fucking days. His _last_ day? 

“Wait, your last day? I’m never gonna see you again?” I ask sadly, starting to panic a bit. My entire summer was structured around coming to _Tastyland_ every day, and it’s dumb that I want to freak out, but things with Michael just started rolling. He’s already leaving? Michael turns the blender on and stares at it thoughtfully, upset. “Yeah, I know. But no, uh, you’ll see me, dork. I know where you live. I’ll visit when I can, of course. I can get you into our concerts and shows, and you could come up to Pittsburgh and Philly whenever you want,” he promises me, but I’m still distraught. 

“Michael, I...” I can’t find anything to say. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I don’t even have his number. Of course we’re not dating or anything, like fuck, I don’t even have his _number_. “Wait, what’s your num–“ 

I’m interrupted by a cough behind me, and I turn around to see another customer. Michael looks up and drizzles chocolate along the sides of my cup, pouring the milkshake into my cup, then popping a lid on. “One moment, sir,” Michael tells the man behind me, who nods and rocks back on his heels. “Sorry, Jere, what’d you say?” 

God, I’m going to cry. Why? There’s no reason why I should be crying at all. This is fucking ridiculous. I’ll deal with asking Michael for his number some other day. “Nothing. I, uh, we can hang some time before you go,” I suggest, and he nods. He slides me my cup and a straw. “Of course,” he agrees, and smiles at me. “See you later. Don’t melt your drink before you finish it, hot stuff.” 

Fucking Michael. 

———

I feel like I’m back at square one, trying to figure out the relationship I have with Michael. Part of me wants to ask him out before he goes, but how the fuck would I do that, first of all? Like God, I don’t even have his _number_. I’m stupid if I think that we’d be able to keep up a brand new relationship over the course of the rest of the summer. 

Stupid Michael, with his stupid talents and people-skills and musical inclination. 

I groan and rub my eyes. It’s almost midnight. Why am I still awake? 

I rack my brain for stupid pick-up lines about phone numbers. Even if I don’t date him, I’d love to keep in touch while he’s out of town, because he’s a great friend and I don’t want to lose contact. 

Suddenly, I get an idea. 

Okay, what if I ask him for his number on the last day of work? That way, we wouldn’t have to do any weird waltzing around the topic while he still had several days until work ended. The prospect excites me, because it won’t be awkward and it’d make sense. It wouldn’t insinuate that I want to date him, because it’s like, “Hey. It’s your last day. We’re gonna be great friends. What’s your number?” Right? Right. 

That’s my new plan. I don’t feel so awful all of a sudden. Instead of worrying, I think back to the night I spent with Michael in the hotel, the next day I spent in the car with him, the many meals we ate together, all the conversations we had, every kiss we shared. My anxiety melts at these recollections, and I find myself smiling, face warm and heart fluttering. Stupid Michael. Why do I like him so much? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short chapter! going back to the og format for the most part for the rest of the week in the fic so that we can get that good falling action ;)


	18. June 26

“Today marks our first knowing-each-other-for-a-month anniversary,” I tell Brooke, who insisted this morning that we hang out today. I’m taking her to my favorite place in town because the ice cream is fucking bomb and I need to see Michael before he leaves. Brooke adjusts her sunglasses and hums. “Yeah, well, we should have a knowing-each-other anniversary too!” she pouts, then crosses her arms. “I’ve known you since sixth grade. He can’t touch me.”

I snicker and shove my hands into my pockets. There was a time where I had almost dated Brooke, but of course, she decided that I wasn’t her type and that we’d be better off as friends. I don’t think that I’m anybody’s type, honestly. 

“Okay, well, when school starts, we can have our first knowing-each-other-for-six-years-anniversary,” I promise as we approach _Tastyland_ , and I can’t believe that I’ve known Brooke for almost six years. Of course she didn’t talk to me until halfway through my junior year, but that’s beside the point. She peeps around the corner at the stand, where Michael’s on his phone, leaning over the counter. 

He got a haircut. 

“Oh my God,” I whisper breathlessly, leaning against the stand and laughing. It’s not _terrible_ , but I definitely miss his old hair. Michael looks up and pretends to pout, his lower lip quivering. “Boo. You’re mean! I think it’s cute,” he counters, setting down his phone and running his hand through the shorter mass of hair on top of his head. It’s not a dramatic change, and I’m probably overdue for a haircut myself. Brooke looks from me to Michael, confused, but waves at Michael. 

“I’m Brooke, Jeremy’s friend,” she introduces herself, and Michael stands up and smiles. “Brooke. I’m Michael, Jeremy’s...” 

She cuts him short by holding up a hand, then leans over and looks at the menu. “Only ice cream? No frozen yogurt?” Brooke asks, offended. I forgot that she loves frozen yogurt. Michael shakes his head, and I think about how he didn’t even put a label on me. I’m glad that he’s just as confused and unsure as I am. He rocks back on his heels and starts making whatever my milkshake of the day is. 

“No, but we have a dairy-free option. Unless you really just like frozen yogurt. The cheesecake ice cream kinda tastes like frozen yogurt,” Michael suggests, pouring ice into the blender. “Oh, by the way, I _love_ your earrings.” 

Brooke stands back and brings her hand up to her ear, spinning around a constellation earring that stretches up her ear. They _are_ nice earrings. I’m glad that Michael’s been able to get along with my friends, and I feel like he’s lying about being good with people our age. Rich and Brooke like him. “Thanks! Chinese website. Took forever to get here, but worth it,” she responds cheerfully, then taps her chin. “I think I _will_ take a scoop of cheesecake ice cream. Sounds tasty.” 

Michael nods and blends my milkshake together. He looks up at me and smirks. “Hot out here today. Guess what?” 

“Huh?”

”We’ve known each other for a _whole_ month,” Michael chimes, and I grin widely. So he _did_ remember. “I didn’t have time to get you a gift,” I tease, and he holds up a finger. “Uh, I did. I drew a picture,” he announces, turning the blender off and leaning down to grab a sheet of paper out of a shelf in the cart. He holds it out to me and grabs a cup to pour my milkshake into. 

I study the page and chuckle quietly. It’s a really crude drawing of our timeline as friends, numbered by date. There’s a span of time where Michael has a picture of himself crying, or what I think is him crying. It has glasses. My drawing-self has curly hair and freckles (or acne, I don’t know), and is constantly drawn with hearts around it. 

God, stupid Michael. Why is he so talented and gets offers to play piano for cool people? I don’t want him to leave.

Michael finishes my drink and sets the cup down, then moves to get Brooke a scoop of ice cream. She moves to pay. But I hold up a hand and give her my wallet, still looking at Michael’s drawing. She takes it with a confused look, but doesn’t question me. I look at a small drawing of what looks like an elephant, but the date tells me that it’s me and Michael sharing a bed at _Travelodge_. There’s a picture of me yelling about fake ID’s and breadsticks, which basically sums up my existence. 

I feel guilty all of a sudden, especially because I didn’t make a card or drawing or get a gift or anything. However, something tells me I don’t need to. This drawing is a gift from both of us in a way, even though the people are stick-people and the eyes look like uneven buttons. Kind of scary, but it’s cute and thoughtful. 

“You sly son of a bitch,” I giggle, looking up at Michael, who’s gazing at me with a smile. “This is cute. I like it.” 

“You’re cute. I like it.”

Brooke eats her ice cream while looking at the two of us awkwardly, but doesn’t move. I take my milkshake and talk to Michael about his trip for some time, asking where he’ll stay and if he’ll have to share a bed (no, thank God). 

“Even if I did, _they_ probably don’t steal blankets,” he jokes, and I sip from my milkshake. What fucking flavor is this? 

“Rude. I didn’t. Also, what flavor is this milkshake?” I ask, taking another sip. It’s pretty good, not the best. Michael leans against the counter and hums thoughtfully. “Should be birthday cake. I’m sad that you won’t get to try every single flavor. Quitter. Wait, are you gonna keep coming back after I leave? I’m supposed to be hiring someone to take my place, but no one wants to stand in this heat for several hours a day. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” 

Wait a second, _job_ offering? Something to do with my summer? “Why isn’t Travis going to work here?” I further, and Michael rolls his eyes. “Because he doesn’t want a full time job.” 

Right.

I turn the idea over in my head. I could actually work here and get paid to reminisce in my Michael memories while eating ice cream, which sounds like a dream. “Can I apply?” Michael pauses, then gives me a surprised look. “You’d have to bathe in sunscreen every day. I have to interview you, too,” he teases me cautiously, like I’m not taking this seriously. 

I cross my arms and shake my head. “Fine. Interview me.”

”Tomorrow. Uh, two. Don’t be late,” he adapts a serious, very professional voice, and then cracks and starts laughing. Brooke, still confused, joins in laughing, though she probably doesn’t know why. 

“Cool. See you then, Mr. Mell,” I reply, and Brooke and I return to the sidewalk. 

“Hey!” Michael calls, and we both turn around. 

“Don’t melt your milkshake before you finish it, hot stuff.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if i said this yet, but travis isn’t based off of george’s ex or anything. it was the first name that popped into my head when i was thinking about what to call the guy 
> 
> sorry for the short chapter! i won’t be able to update for a while today, sorry


	19. June 27

Jeremy Heere? Exercising? It’s less likely than you may think. However, not today, because I’m actually riding the bike that hasn’t seen the light of day since I got it on my fifteenth birthday. After a few _YouTube_ tutorials on how to raise the seat and not break my dick while riding, I was able to remember how to ride my bike and ride that bad boy to _Tastyland_.

I’m not very fast, and people on the sidewalk give me dirty glares as I pass, constantly losing control over my steering. Whatever, I have a job interview, and biking to work is cool, right? 

I almost miss _Tastyland_ because I momentarily forget how to brake, but after jerking my feet backwards on the pedals and almost flipping my bike over, I pull up to the ice cream stand, a very confused and concerned Michael staring at me. “‘Sup,” I try to say smoothly, but it comes out in a labored breath because I’m exhausted. How long was my ride? 

Michael’s expression becomes amused. “Did you just finish a race or something? Been biking a few miles?” he teases me, and suddenly my “grand entrance” isn’t so grand, but actually rather embarrassing and counterproductive. 

Wait, did I really think that Michael would be impressed by me riding a bike? 

“I don’t have training wheels,” I point out proudly, clambering off of the bike and rolling it up to the stand, and Michael rolls his eyes. “Oh, _wow_ ,” he comments sarcastically, clapping his hands together slowly and laughing. “No _training wheels_? I’m blown away, Heere. Wait, where’s your helmet?” I kick down the kickstand of my bike and glare at Michael, raising my eyebrows in a sort of matter-of-fact way. “Helmets are for _losers_ ,” I purr stupidly, but at least I think I sound cool when I say it. 

Michael just laughs and starts making my milkshake. 

“Oh, wait, uh, I have an interview today,” I remind him, setting a hand on the metal cart. Michael looks up and smirks, then stops what he’s doing. “Right, how could I forget? Come, take a seat,” he gestures to the red metal table next to the ice cream stand, and I leave my bike to sit down. I shake his hand with a huge smile before sitting down. 

“Jeremy,” I introduce myself. 

“Michael.” 

This is so cheesy. I love it. I love Michael. No, sorry, I like Michael. Love can come after I ask him for his number on Friday, maybe. I hope. “So,” Michael interrupts my anxious thoughts, pretending to adjust a stack of papers which is just air. “What are your strengths, Mr. Heere?” I giggle quietly, but it quickly subsides when Michael gives me a serious glare. Oh my God, he’s so hot. 

“U-Uh,” I stammer, losing myself in his features. God, what did I do to deserve to meet someone like him? I’ve barely known him a month and I’m ridiculously obsessed. “Let’s, uh, let’s see. I can do math, so I can make change. Also, ah, I’m organized. And I think I can maybe make a milkshake and scoop ice cream.” Michael chuckles, covering his mouth and leaning forward slightly. He recovers and sits back, taking a deep breath. “You have a very extensive resumé, I see,” Michael jokes, pretending to examine more paperwork. 

I nod and shrug. “What can I say? I have lots of experience.” Michael cocks a brow at me and leans forward. “A lot of experience? What if I want a vir–“ He pauses and shakes his head quickly. “What if I want a worker who’s brand new to the business?”

 _Virgin?_ Holy shit. 

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” I respond in a slightly suggestive voice, adding a wink for good measure. I kind of really want this job all of a sudden. Michael swallows hard, then looks like he’s thinking really hard. This isn’t even about the job anymore, is it? We sit in silence for a few minutes, then Michael scoots back his chair, the awful screeching of metal against cement hurting my head. I follow suit, standing up and leaning against my arms, which are positioned awkwardly on the table. 

“I’ll get back to you,” Michael finally says, his smile fake and cheesy. He turns around, then turns back to face me. “My team decided that you got the job. Congratulations. Orientation starts tomorrow, because my piano instructor is back in town and demanded I have a practice today.” 

I squeal and round the table, throwing my arms around Michael’s neck and hugging him. 

Momentarily, I can’t tell the difference between reality and my memories. I open my eyes and I’m suddenly back at the college, in the auditorium, people everywhere. I feel relief and pride and excitement. It’s not hot as fuck. I blink again, and then I’m back in front of _Tastyland_ , hugging Michael. What the fuck was that about? 

Michael pulls back and kisses my forehead, then walks back around to the cart. He finishes my milkshake in record time, then starts packing up his stuff. Oh, I guess that his lesson is right now, then. 

“Good interview, Heere,” he says as I take a sip of my milkshake. _Oreo_. 

I smile gently and shrug, leaning against my bike. “Had a good interviewer. Excited to start my training tomorrow. I know I’ll never amount to _Tastyland_ legend Michael Mell, though. He also plays piano, by the way. Best I’ve ever heard.” Michael snorts and walks around the cart to join me, tapping my cheek lightly. 

“Don’t flatter me,” he cooes, his eyes wandering to my lips, but they quickly snap back up to my gaze. “Have fun at theatre group, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow. Hope you don’t mind hand-me-down uniforms.” I chuckle and shrug, taking my bike off of its metal leg and holding it upright, almost falling over. 

“Not if they’re yours.” 

“Oh, don’t melt your milkshake before you finish it, hot stuff.” With that, Michael grabs one of my hands, squeezes it, lets go, and walks across the road to the other side of the street. 

God, I think I may actually _love_ him.

———

“Auditions,” Christine states simply as she suddenly appears in front of me, dropping a huge folder onto my lap. I gaze at it in confusion, but open it and see tons of scripts, reference pages for characters Christine must be studying, along with advertisements for auditions in theatres across Pennsylvania. 

“This is a little much,” I comment, flipping through just a few of her papers. She crashes down in the seat next to me, snatching her folder back. “Don’t judge me, Jere. You of all people should know that I _hate_ having nothing to do. Jeremy, I’ve had so much free time that I remembered every spoken word in an episode of _Kitchen Nightmares_. In Gordon Ramsey’s _exact_ voice. Are you not impressed?” she spits back, voice poison. Oh God, she scared me sometimes. 

I shrink back into my seat as we wait for the rest of the group to show up. “Uh, I am?” I ask, my voice scratchy. “I got a job today. You should look into one.” 

Christine shoots me an offended look and slides her folder under her seat, crossing her legs. “My mom wants me to work for her at the car dealership, but not much to do for a freelance actor and musical expert with a near-photographic memory,” she retorts bitterly, sticking out her bottom lip. I chuckle and loosen up a bit, leaning forward. 

“Photographic?”

She nods quickly and looks away from me. “Calling me a liar? Rude. I don’t wanna talk to you.” 

Silence. 

“Oh, how’s Michael? What’s this new job you speak of? Michael’s boyfriend?” Christine gabs, and I know that she just can’t sit in silence for more than fifteen seconds. I blush and shake my head. Not yet. “No, I’m gonna work at _Tastyland_ ,” I inform her, and she looks back at me, surprised. “With Michael?” 

Sadly, that’s a no. I wish. “Nah. He’s leaving for a while to do piano people stuff. He’s so talented, and I guess that that means he’s gotta go show everyone else how cool he is. Can’t have him all to myself, unfortunately,” I mutter, pressing my back against the hard back of my metal chair. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. Christine clicks her tongue at me. “Sucks that you fell in love with a musician. I watched a video of him playing the other day. Guess it was a recording from some showcase. _YouTube_ ,” she recalls, tapping her chin. “Very, _very_ talented.”

Wait, is there a recording of Michael playing piano on the Internet?

———

It’s almost eleven and I’ve been binge-watching videos of Michael playing the piano on _YouTube_ for over an hour. I’m not sure how I wasn’t aware of these gems before now, but I’m glad that Christine made me aware of their existence. I wouldn’t be able to die peacefully without these videos. 

The oldest video is probably a shitty recording of a public talent show from a few years ago, and it features Michael playing some song that the title of the video says is “ _Sonatina in C Major_ ,” whatever that means. He looks really young in this video, and it makes me smile. I wish I had known him whenever this was filmed so that I could tell him how dorky his hair looks. Wait, oh my God, he _did_ have braces. I knew that no one’s teeth could be so perfect without the divine intervention of medical professionals. 

In the video, Michael doesn’t seem all that confident. It sounds like he may have pressed a few wrong keys at the beginning, but the beautiful transition of his confidence and comfort as the song goes on is mesmerizing. I can tell the exact moment that Michael becomes lost in his art, and it’s stunning. Despite the low resolution and quality of this video, I can still make out every feature on Michael’s younger face, every change in expression as the song continues. Wow. 

Unfortunately, watching Michael playing piano on the computer doesn’t even come close to the blessing of seeing him play in person. Hell, I wonder how he plays when he thinks that no one’s around. Aren’t people supposed to be better in solitude? 

I’m starting to get a headache for staring at my screen for an hour, and I’m also dozing off. I should probably get some rest. Besides, I have to sleep before my big Tastyland orientation tomorrow, right? 

Tomorrow’s also The-Day-I-Ask-Michael-for-his-Number Day Eve, so I should definitely let my brain rest before my anxiety eats me alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heck guys someone named maddie made fan art for this fic and i sobbed they’re so good at art the drawings are actual blessings?? 
> 
> and yes you should make fan art or whatever for this fic and my writing because i love you guys and your art is everything? like please?? email me or send it to me on ig for sure!!
> 
> ++ the song michael’s playing in the video is “sonatina in c major opus 36 no 1” by muzio clementi, a song i learned to play for my first comp


	20. June 28

I’m suddenly incredibly nervous about this whole “new job” situation I have on my hands. I’m awful at interacting with people, especially people outside of younger age groups. If Michael’s last day is tomorrow, then I only have two days to learn everything there is to know about the ice cream business and people skills required for the job. This was a mistake. 

As I walk down the sidewalk yet again to _Tastyland_ , I turn many ideas over in my head, and they’re not really about the job interview. On Friday, I’m planning on asking Michael for his number. 

Why can’t I just give him my number and ask him to keep in touch while he’s away?

No, that’s not sincere enough. I think that asking Michael for his number would represent every emotion he’s made me feel, from the intense confusion to the high feeling of bliss to amusement to anger to distress. Maybe I could make a stupid little speech about how much I’ll miss him and how he means a lot to me and how I’m in love with him. 

In _like_ with him.

My legs are shaking with every step I take, careful to avoid the cracks. _Tastyland_ is only a storefront away, tucked back a bit. This is my new work commute. I feel like an adult. 

When I reach the stand, Michael looks up at me and smiles warmly, holding up his apron and hat. Why isn’t he wearing them? “Mr. Heere, welcome to your first day on the job!” he chimes, and I realize that I’m here really early. It’s, like, nine in the morning. I grin and take the apron and hat, shoving the hat on over my head and draping the apron’s strings around my neck. When Michael sees me struggling to tie it, he ties it for me, then fixes my hair so that I don’t look like a compressed bush. 

“So, where should we start?” Michael wonders aloud, then snaps and takes me over to the register. “Alright, this son of a bitch,” he decides, running his hand along the keys of the register. I can’t help but notice how rough his hands look. Probably from all that piano. 

Michael shows me how to work the register, occasionally warning me about how inconsistent it is and how it sometimes won’t open. In those instances, I’m supposed to pry it open with the nearest object. Lovely. I’m really trying to listen, but every word makes me more and more anxious about asking for Michael’s phone number. There’s no reason why I should be getting sweaty hands over the notion, especially since I don’t have to ask until tomorrow. Besides, what’s the worst thing that can happen? He says no? Oh my God, what if he says no?

”–and this is the ice cream scoop. I’ll show you how to tell which flavor is which, how much force to use when scooping, and how to position your scoop on the cone so that it doesn’t fall off. First, though, this is how you open the fridge,” Michael’s telling me, and I shake away my thoughts so that I can watch. Michael takes his hand and turns a sort of knob-looking piece of plastic on the glass covering of the fridge, then pulls it open and lets it click into place so that it doesn’t fall back shut. I nod and peer in, gazing at the many stacks of white containers with ice cream in them. They’re in shelves, at the bottom of the fridge, stacked... This is going to be the worst part about figuring out this job. 

No, that’s the whole people thing. 

Michael picks up the ice cream scoop, then pulls a cone out of a paper sleeve of cones. “Watch closely, Jere. Ice cream scooping is an art form,” he jokes, giggling as he takes the scoop and presses it against a tub of ice cream. In a few strokes, he rolls out a perfect amount of ice cream in a perfect, spherical shape. That’s talent. 

“There we go,” he declares, then places the scoop onto the cone. I watch the way he flicks his wrist a bit to screw it into the cone so that it doesn’t fall off. 

Michael hands me the ice cream, which I start eating as I watch him show me where everything else is. Apparently they have toppings, which he says also correspond with milkshake flavors. For example, there are brownie bits for the brownie milkshake, but they’re also offered as a topping. First topping’s free, every topping after is an additional fifty cents. There’s also a pricing sheet attached to one of the posts that holds up the awning, which is placed conveniently at eye level. 

“Any questions so far? You’re awfully quiet,” Michael interrupts my thoughts, leaning against the stand. I shake my head and look around the stand at everything he’s shown me so far. This isn’t terrible so far. 

Michael nods and looks up, gasping quietly and smiling. “Looks like you have your first customer. Big smile, greet her, ask her how her day’s been, something,” he instructs, and I start to panic. My hat probably looks stupid, and I’m sure my apron is too big and bulky. My hands start shaking as I rest them against the metal of the stand, and I meet eyes with a woman who’s walking up to the cart. 

“H-Hi, good morning,” I choke, swallowing hard. God, she’s an adult. I try to focus, but I know for a fact that the maximum age I’m comfortable communicating with is five. This is awful. “How... How can I, uh, help you?” 

The lady looks down at the menu in front of her, tapping it thoughtfully. “Hm... Do you have a certain recommendation?” 

Well, I’ve only ever had the milkshakes, plus a small scoop of whatever that ice cream was that I just had. What am I supposed to say? What if she’s, like, allergic to my suggestion and shoots it down? I don’t want her to think I’m weird or anything. What even is my favorite flavor of milkshake? I love vanilla, but that’s a little boring, isn’t it? 

“Uh, well, I guess it, um, depends,” I peep, biting the inside of my cheek before continuing. “I’m kind of bo-oring, so I really like the vanilla shake. But if you don’t like vanilla, uh, the fudge is good.” I can tell that Michael’s beaming next to me, and I’m glad that he’s proud of me. 

The lady nods and looks up at me with a soft smile. She’s actually being... nice? And she’s not even judging me for being a shaking, sputtering mess. “That sounds good! Nothing too sweet, so a vanilla shake sounds great,” she decides. Oh my God, this actually isn’t horrifying. I’m still feeling incredibly self-conscious of my appearance, especially because my acne is horrible because of the influx of dairy in my diet this summer, but it’s not as terrible as I thought it’d be. I swallow and nod, returning her grin. “Yeah? O-Okay. That brings your total to... three dollars and fifty-four cents,” I venture, looking at Michael for confirmation. 

He holds up a hand. “First customer special. Jeremy’s new here. On the house,” Michael eases, and the lady puts her wallet away. Oh, okay then. That’s not really my call, and I don’t think that I have the authority to give out free milkshakes yet. 

“Oh, you boys are sweet! Thanks so much,” she replies graciously, and Michael puts a hand on my arm and squeezes gently. “Of course. Gotta teach this dork how to make a milkshake, but I promise that it’ll be better than any milkshake you’ve ever had,” Michael swears, pulling me over to the blender. He points at a scoop with lines on it to represent different measurements, then tells me that the second line is how much ice I want to use. I nod and reach for the scoop, then shovel some ice into the blender. He hands me milk, and I pour that out until he tells me not to. Following that, the vanilla powder goes in, which apparently is a mix of sorts and gives the milkshake a more milkshake-like consistency.

I’m learning a lot. 

Michael grabs a cup for me and sets it onto the counter, and I struggle to get the blender off of the stand. “Oh, it’s a twist and pull up,” he adds, and I twist the container and pull up, my arm shaking as I carry the blender cup to the milkshake cup. This is really fucking heavy.

The woman watches me patiently, and I can’t imagine why someone would need a milkshake at nine-ish in the morning on a Thursday. Who am I to judge, though? “Okay,” I say surely as I finish pouring the milkshake, a little bit leaking onto the counter and making a mess. Luckily, Michael grabs a small towel and mops up the mess, and I snap the lid onto the lady’s cup and pass it to her along with a straw. 

Hey, not terrible. 

“Thanks so much!” she tells us, unwrapping her straw as she walks away. Before she does, I remember that Michael says that stupid thing to me every day, and I guess that’s kind of their motto, so I should probably say it too. 

“Don’t, uh, melt your milkshake before you finish it, h-hot stuff,” I call weakly, and the lady looks back and gives me a weird look, but chuckles anyways. Next to me, Michael falls into a laughing fit, his cries echoing off of the buildings next to us and filling my ears. He has such a cute laugh. I gaze at him quizzically, readjusting my hat. “What?” I ask, but he keeps laughing. He’s doubling over with giggles, his whole body shaking. 

I didn’t say anything funny.

”Michael, _what_?” I repeat, getting nervous. Is he laughing at me? Did I do a bad job? Oh my God, I probably look stupid, don’t I? 

When he finally collects himself, Michael stands up and leans against the counter, wiping his eyes tearfully. “Ah, God. Jeremy, really? My own pick-up line?” he chokes, and I give him a confused look. “Don’t you say that to, like, everyone? Isn’t that the motto thing?” I inquire, but he starts laughing again and shakes his head. 

“N-No, Jeremy,” he snorts, sighing happily. “Oh my God. I only say that to _you_ , nerd. What will I do with you?” 

I go red with embarrassment. Fucking hell, Jeremy Heere. Moron. 

———

I’m currently scouring the web for pick-up lines about phone numbers and asking people out on dates, just in case. I haven’t found anything that I think would appeal to Michael, which is really bothering me. 

With a sigh, I push myself away from my desk and stand up, padding to the bathroom so I can brush my teeth. I look at my tired reflection, wondering why I’m beyond exhausted. Well, I _was_ out in the heat for eight hours, and we did have an oddly high amount of customers, so I guess I’m allowed to feel tired. Michael tells me that I don’t need to come in for my job until Monday, as per the direction of the cart’s owner. He wanted me to have an even start so that he could get paperwork done or whatever, I don’t know. However, I do have to go out to lunch with the owner on Saturday, which Michael said he’d give me the guy’s information tomorrow. 

I gaze at my face in the mirror and try to smile. I guess I sort of need to practice for this. “Michael, hi!” I say to myself, my voice cracking. I croak unattractively and clear my throat. Try again. 

“Michael, hey,” I repeat, but much more smoothly. I take a deep breath and blink a few times. “Uh, I... I was wondering if since, y’know, you’re gonna be gone for the next month or whatever... I mean, I want to stay in touch. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.” I shake my head and groan, then lean against the counter, the material digging into my hipbones. God, that hurts. 

Let’s start over. I need to make it more natural, and I need it to come from my heart. 

Then it hits me. 

I need to use my favorite things and memories concerning Michael to tell him how I feel, because those make me feel calm and comfortable. 

My mind travels back to the very first time I heard him playing the piano. I blink and then close my eyes, then open them. I’m suddenly in the art museum, stuck to the wooden floor, staring at the back of Michael’s head as he plays. 

The deep notes fill the air, traveling through my body and blanketing me with a sense of comfort and contentment. I smile and close my eyes, letting the music engulf me and transport me. “Michael,” I think, or maybe say, because I really can’t tell. It sounds more like a distant echo. The music continues, and I know that he can’t hear me, but I’m happy and I’m proud and confident. 

“I’m proud of you and your musical accomplishments. You’re so talented, and... and you deserve every single good thing that comes your way. People everywhere need to hear you play, and I’m glad that you’re finally getting the opportunity to share your gifts.”

_It seems like the he’s getting louder with every note, until he plays the measure again and it gets quieter._

“I can’t believe that my summer has been revolving around some guy from an ice cream stand I’ve never heard of. To me, that’s insane. It’s beautiful. It’s cheesy. Michael, you’ve been my whole summer. I’ve enjoyed every single event I’ve been to for your piano, for you. Every single song has spoken to me on such a deep level, and I’ve never really appreciated piano until now.”

_It’s slow, but it’s fast. It’s quiet, but it’s loud._

I swallow hard and open my eyes. I’m watching Michael play at the competition, getting lost in the music. 

“You... You have no idea how much this last month has changed my life. I never thought that I’d fall in...” 

_Michael’s hands travel to the middle of the piano at an ungodly speed as he plays a few broken chords, banging on the keys so that they clash extravagantly and create the sound he’s going for._

”...love. I never thought that I’d fall in love with anyone, let alone a _boy_. This is all so new to me. Everything. You make it seem even newer, Michael. And fuck, I’m going to miss you when you’re not here. I can’t believe that you’re going to be gone for so long.”

_The way Michael’s fingers dance across the keys quickly one moment and then gracefully the next impresses me greatly, and my head spins as I listen to the rest of the song._

I take a breath and blink away the memories, and I’m met with my reflection. I’m back in my bathroom, eyes wet, cheeks stained with tears. The calming effect the memories have on me is enough to send me to sleep. I just feel so high. 

“I want to stay in touch. I need to stay in touch. I want to go to all of your shows and all of your performances and give you flowers and kiss you and hug you and... And I want to be able to say that you’re my _boyfriend_. That I’m proud of my _boyfriend_.” God, this is everything I wish I had the guts to say to Michael. “Yeah. But, uh, anyways... I guess that’s my long way of asking for your number.” 

I genuinely smile at myself, proud that I was capable of saying shit that was so poetic and edgy. I’m such a mess. My heart flutters as I remember that Michael’s last day is tomorrow, and I swear to myself that if I chicken out, I’ll never forgive myself.

Right, okay. I need to go to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys ahh that last part made me cry uh?? i don’t even know why like it was cheesy and poorly-written but the idea was in my head and the tears did pour :))


	21. June 29 - Part 1

I made a huge mistake by texting the stupid group chat my friends added me to on _Instagram_. I never add my input whenever the group chats, so of course everyone’s making a huge deal about the fact that I’m even talking. Plus, the subject I’ve decided to bring up is incredibly sensitive and probably something that I shouldn’t have brought up in the first place. 

 **jeremyheere:** _How do you ask someone for their number?_

It’s like I didn’t even talk to myself in the mirror for several minutes yesterday. I don’t remember anything I wanted to say, and I still don’t know how to say it. It’s eleven and I _still_ don’t have any clue how I’m going to ask Michael for his number. Time’s running out. 

 **memebiboy:** _oOO did u finally ask out michael?? about time_

 **IsThisLohst:** _AHH I KNEW YOU LIKED HIM HAHAH_

 **IsThisLohst:** _In all seriousness, just ask, Jeremy. What’s the big dEAL?_

God, this was a huge mistake. 

 **jeremyheere:** _I’m not exactly relationship material, that’s the deal._

**jeremyheere:** _What if they say no?_

 **CasketofCanigula:** _jeremy u nUT michael is sooo chill he’ll say yes either way_

 **JakeyD:** _Who’s Michael?_

Fuck, okay, I should probably just turn off my phone and wing this shit. My friends are no help. 

 **IsThisLohst:** _SOME DUDE JEREMY HAS A HUGE CRUSH ON_

 **jeremyheere:** _It’s not a huge crush, I just want his number._

 **memebigbi:** _liar you l o v e michael_

 **JakeyD:** _Uhhh I thought Jeremy was straight????_

 **BiggestDEnergy:** _wait whO?? whATTT??_

 **memebigbi:** _ah u guys are hella clueless okay lemme give u a rundown_

 **CasketofCanigula:** _no as jeremy’s bff i call dibs okay_

 **CasketofCanigula:** _so basically jere is sabotaging his health by getting a milkshake from this place every day so he can flirt w the guy there_

 **CasketofCanigula:** _the end_

 **memebigbi:** _uH yeah basically_

 **IsThisLohst:** _Spot on._

 **JakeyD:** _Ugh why didn’t you tell me Rich? I feel left out._

 **memebigbi:** _aww poor jakey baby :((_

 **JakeyD:** _Stop ignoring me and texting me dummy I’m sitting right next to you._

 **memebigbi:** _no_

 **BiggestDEnergy:** _I feel super out of the loop wait where the heck is Jenna why isn’t she saying anything??_

 **jeremyheere:** _Uh thanks for no help at all._

 **memebigbi:** _wait okay okay let’s help jeremy then we’ll figure out wth goin on w jenna_

 **memebigbi:** _okay so basically just tell him he make you so hornyyy_

 **memebigbi:** _oh wait no but in an austin powers voice like “do I make you hORNY baby??” and then invest in a mouth guard w ugly ugly teeth_

What the fuck am I reading? I look up from my phone and put my feet on the edge of my desk, twisting from side to side. I can’t help but feel anxious and incredibly upset. Michael’s leaving this weekend, and this is literally the last time I’ll see him for a while. I’m really going to miss him, and I can’t even come up with a way to ask if I can keep in touch, let alone admit how I feel. 

 **jeremyheere:** _..._

 **IsThisLohst:** _Just remember not to get worried about your skin or anything okay??_

 **BiggestDEnergy:** _duh like jere your acne is HOT. OWN IT._

 **JakeyD:** _True true. If you need some help, I can like get a walkie-talkie or something and we can communicate that way. I got some advice for you if you ever need it, punk._

 **CasketofCanigula:** _y’all are gonna get jeremy rejected_

 **CasketofCanigula:** _jere literally just be you. things aren’t supposed to be easy. that’s what makes this shit so meaningful!! you GOT this_

I sigh and set my phone down, rubbing my temple. Alright, that was no help whatsoever. I don’t know who to listen to, and suddenly several voices in my head are telling me completely different things. I shake my head and push my chair back, standing up. I need to go see Michael before he leaves. Maybe I’ll remember everything I said to myself in the bathroom last night on my way over.

With that, I grab a pair of shoes out of my closet, sliding them on and tying them slowly, thoughtfully.

Okay, piano? I’m going to miss him? How is this supposed to work? It was so much easier last night, when I didn’t actually have to say all of this stuff to his face. After I get my shoes on, I stand up and pocket my phone, then take a deep breath before leaving the house. The walk is too short for once, and it’s not nearly enough time to decide what I’m going to say to Michael. 

“Michael, hi,” I start to myself, _Tastyland_ entering my field of vision. I start walking slower. My voice cracks. I clear my voice and start over. “Michael, hey. Uh, I...” I stop just short of the cart, closing my eyes and taking a shaky breath. I can’t believe that I’m actually doing this. With what little amount of courage of have left, I step around the corner, my eyes still shut, and walk up to the stand. 

“Michael, hey,” I say nervously, opening my eyes. My stomach drops. 

He’s not here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didn’t pick up -
> 
> memebigbi - rich (it’s me me big bi haha i love jacksfilms + rich and his sexuality ahh sue me)  
> IsThisLohst - brooke  
> BiggestDEnergy - chloe  
> jeremyheere - jeremy (he’s so unoriginal ugh smh)  
> JakeyD - jake  
> CasketofCanigula - christine (she like drama what more is there to say)


	22. June 29 - Part 2

I’m crying in a café and shoveling a scolding hot cinnamon roll into my mouth. 

Yes, I know that it’s pathetic, but I really don’t have any other options at this point. When I went to _Tastyland_ , Michael wasn’t even there. I waited for _two and a half hours_ , but he never showed up.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m crying, but I’ve spent the last thirty minutes narrowing down my options. For one, he probably hates me and didn’t want to see me before he left. That way, he’d never have to talk to me ever again and wouldn’t have to ever see me either. It’d be hard to tell me no if I asked for his number, which he probably anticipated because I’m attached and obsessed with him. God, of course that’s what happened. That’s the most likely option. 

I sniffle quietly as the weird taste of cinnamon roll and salty water from my tears fills my mouth. Jesus Christ, could I get any sadder and more pathetic? 

Just as I ask myself that question, a waitress appears over my table. She gives me an awkward, sad look as she hands back my debit card. “Sorry, uh, your card was declined. Sorry.” My heart beats wildly and I start shaking even harder. The tears become hotter and start falling faster. The whole reason I usually use my debit card to pay for food is because trying to count out cash and change for tips and my order is embarrassing and makes me flustered. Holy fuck, things just keep getting worse, don’t they? 

I nod and sniffle loudly, setting down my fork and grabbing my card. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and shudder, anxious and embarrassed and distressed beyond words. 

“O-Okay, so-orry,” I hiccup tearfully, voice thick with tears. Get ahold of yourself, Jeremy. You’re seventeen. You shouldn’t be having an emotional breakdown in _Dv8_. I take my wallet out of my pocket and check my receipt again, and the waitress walks away for a few minutes, leaving me to cry and finish my cinnamon roll. Today is going to be the death of me. 

I can’t believe that Michael left without telling me that he was leaving early. Am I really that awful? God, I can’t believe that I let myself fall in _love_ with him. And to think that someone actually had a crush on me for once, that he’d give me his number and we’d fucking date.

Fuck, what a laugh.

My thoughts cripple me, and I shove my plate back before burrowing my face in my crossed arms on the table. 

Every thought I’ve had about Michael, every time I fantasized about him... Stupid Michael. Stupid piano. Stupid Jeremy. Did I really think he would like me after all of this? He got to know the real me. That’s why he left early, without telling me, without warning. I’m so embarrassed and disappointed and just mortified. I want to die. I want to go into my room and sob and watch _The Simpsons_ until my vision blurs. I’m such a fucking idiot. 

I feel someone tap my shoulder, a voice echoing in the distance. God, go away. Can’t they tell that I’m just trying to cry and eat my cinnamon roll in peace? 

“Jeremy,” the voice rings in my ear. Jesus, I’m starting to hear things, too. Sounds like Michael. Fuck, I want to disappear. “Jeremy. Jeremy?” 

I shoot up, face hot and tears streaming down my cheeks. My nose is running, too, and I’m not a pretty crier. “What?” I manage to choke, sputtering. My vision is so blurred that all I can see are blobs of color. I look up and make out a tall, dark figure, whose hand hasn’t left my shoulder. Am I making a scene? I feel like I’m making a huge scene. 

“Jeremy, honey, what’s wrong?” the person asks. Who the fuck is this? Why do they know my name? Suddenly, the person’s moving their thumb to wipe away my tears, and I don’t have the energy to swat their hand away. I just inhale shakily and let out a small cry as my vision becomes clearer. 

Michael?

Michael stares down at me sadly, his face full of concern. “Jeremy, where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you all day. I got worried, I... I went to your house and you weren’t there,” he says in a hushed voice, and my anxiety starts consuming me again. I’m trembling. “M-My house? I’ve been waiting at fucking _Tastyland_ all day,” I whisper angrily, wiping my nose on my hand again. “You fucking left me! This... This is the last day I get to see you and you just left! You weren’t there!” 

He steps back slightly, looking hurt. I don’t mean to come off so angry, but I can’t help it. I’m so upset and my face still burns with tears. “Jeremy, I’m sorry. My mom’s car broke down this morning and she works, like, an hour away, so I had to drive her there and then had to come back, then I went to your house to see you and talk and hang out before I left because my boss said I could take the day off if I needed, but you weren’t there. I waited on your porch for a few hours, thinking that you had maybe left or had something to do. 

“Jeremy, you thought I left? Without talking to you first?” Michael asks in a hushed voice, and I sniffle loudly. “Yes, Michael,” I reply sourly, starting to relax a bit. However, what if he’s lying? “Yeah, I thought you... I thought you left. I thought you didn’t wanna see me or something and just...” 

Michael pushes me over in the booth and sits down next to me. What’s he even doing here? How did he know I was here? Everything is seeming too good to be true. I may just be dreaming. “Jeremy, why would I do that? I like you. Fuck, dude. I think I _love_ you. I was gonna show up at your house and make a huge show of telling you how I feel and then we’d, I dunno, have a moment,” he says breathlessly, searching my eyes. 

He was going to tell me he liked me? He loves me? 

“N-No,” I respond hotly, still upset. He’s lying, I know he is. “Stop lying. Do-on’t feel bad for me. I know you–“ 

Michael takes my face in his hands and presses his lips into mine, and it tastes really weird because I just ate a cinnamon roll and was crying and he uses a coconut lip scrub. I sigh and melt into the kiss, and I can’t help but hope that this is real. God, I really hope this is real. He pulls back and wipes away the rest of my tears. “Jeremy, I’m in love with you, dummy. Why the fuck would I lie about that? You’re the sweetest, most thoughtful, most beautiful person I know. I couldn’t ask for someone more perfect. Like, fuck dude, I don’t know what we are, but I know I want you and I like you and that my heart is breaking seeing you like this.” 

God, he’s so perfect. I wish that I could speak with the same eloquence. However, I can’t. “What’re you even doing here?” I interrupt our moment, and he chuckles. “My favorite café. Very LGBT-friendly. That’s why I come. What’re _you_ doing here?” 

“What?” I ask, looking up at the wall and seeing a shit ton of LGBT representation and flags. Jesus, I’m blind. “I, uh, saw it and thought it looked good and would drown my sorrows.” Michael giggles and kisses my nose, and I realize that this is my chance. Maybe he’ll feel sorry enough for me to give me his number after all. 

“Uh, I... I really like you, Michael. I’m, um, I’m heartbroken that you’re leaving for the summer. Like, I literally just cried for almost three hours because I thought you had left for good. Bit of an overreaction...” I’m starting to falter. I take a steadying breath and watch Michael nod expectantly. “But, uh, point is, I’ve never met someone wh-who makes me feel the way you do. You’re so-o talented and gifted and perfect and it’s no wonder people want to listen to you play and sponsor you to do whatever... What I’m saying is that I wanna stay in touch while you’re away, because I’m going to die without you. For real.” 

Michael blushes and leans against his arm on the table. “Jeremy Heere,” he teases, grinning, “are you asking me for my number?” 

Holy fuck, he’s so cute and amazing and just... God, I love him. 

“Y-Yeah, I guess I am,” I whimper, and he laughs breathlessly. “Of course, dork. Let’s go back to my house so we can hang out and actually talk through our feelings like normal human beings. I’m done being confused about what we are and what the future holds for us,” Michael suggests, and I nod. Jesus, that’s all I’ve wanted for longer than he could possibly know. 

Why am I still crying? “Hold on, my card got declined,” I snort, pointing to the stack of cash on top of my receipt that the waitress hasn’t picked up yet. Michael smiles gently and kisses my forehead. 

Why did I ever think that he would just leave me like that? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t worry haha this isn’t done we got a few more chapters hnng


	23. June 29 - Part 3

I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to come into Michael’s house without worshipping the attention to color detail, the perfect atmosphere, the warm, welcoming vibes. Everything’s just so matched and expertly placed. 

“You really do have a nice house,” I repeat from the last time I came, which seems like forever ago. Michael laughs softly and shuts the door behind me, locking it. “My mom’s an interior designer,” he informs me, which would make sense. No wonder everything looks so beautiful and professionally done. I’m not really sure how I’d describe the house’s overall aesthetic, but it’s gorgeous nonetheless. 

Michael slips his shoes off by the front door, hand against the wall to balance himself. “Feel free to take off your shoes,” he says, though I’m sure it’s just his polite way of telling me to take them off. 

I nod and walk back a bit, forcing them off of my feet in two jerky motions. “Don’t know what you wanna do. I really just want to hang out, honestly,” Michael adds, standing up straight and smiling at me. I mirror his expression and nod, shrugging. “Whatever you want to do. You could, uh, give me a house tour,” I suggest cluelessly, and he perks up a bit. “Oh yeah, sure! This way,” he leads me into the kitchen. 

“Here’s the kitchen.” I chuckle and clap sarcastically, letting him take my hand and pull me back into the living room, then back through a hallway. At the end of the hallway, Michael opens a door, and I’m suddenly drowning in a very sweet, familiar smell. 

“My room.” 

I look around in amazement. Honestly, Michael’s room is pretty messy. His bed isn’t made, his clothes are kind of just draped haphazardly across his desk and dressers, his closet is ajar and leaking contents. However, I think that this is exactly what I’d expect of Michael, and the chaos isn’t necessarily a bad thing. There’s a collection of lava lamps on top of one of the dressers in the room, glowing and bubbling steadily as I pass them. 

Michael has a small flatscreen television attached to his wall just above the short dresser, wires leading down from the TV to a DVD/VCR player and an _Xbox_. 

My eyes wander back to his bed, which is pretty big and covered in a ton of blankets. The comforter is dotted with the _Back to the Future_  logo, along with small _DeLorean’s_. Gosh, Michael is such a geek. I love him. I look back up at Michael, a goofy grin on my face. He’s so cute because he almost looks like he’s nervous or something. “What do you think?” he asks cautiously, and I can’t help but giggle.

“Perfect. You in every way imaginable.”

Michael loosens up a bit, smiling. “Oh, music room,” he remembers suddenly, slipping out of the room. I follow him before I get lost, and we cross the house to the other side, traveling back into an open room with huge glass windows as a wall, facing a green backyard with a bright blue pool and a nice patio. It’s stunning. I tear my gaze from the panes and follow Michael as he shuffles over to the piano, which is huge and sort of faces the window.

I’m not sure how or why the piano looks perfect in that position, but it just does.

Michael lifts the lid up and slides into the bench, scooting it back a bit before stretching out his arms and letting his fingers grace the keys. I sigh to myself as I watch the back of Michael’s head, his shoulders moving as he plays a few chords. “You know something?” Michael comments absently, his playing softening. I watch him as he gazes out at his backyard, posture never faltering. 

“Hm?” I hum in reply, crossing my arms and leaning back on my heels. I could seriously stay like this forever, and I can’t believe that I was sobbing only a few minutes before now, I’m so content. Michael hesitates as he continues plucking at the keys, some fingers tapping lightly, some holding out notes as he thinks about what he wants to say. “You have no idea how many times I’d come home from work and sit here, playing piano and thinking about you. You’ve been all that I could think about lately, Jeremy. I hope you know that,” he admits quietly, his piano even quieter. 

I revel in the sweet melodic waves that rush over me, my face warming at the mention of Michael’s conscience. Fuck, he just looks so perfect. “Thinking about me?” I ask, like I don’t understand. 

Maybe I just want to hear him say it again. 

Michael nods, his hair bouncing slightly. “Yeah. I think about you all day, and I wish that I could think about you less, because it makes not being around you so much more painful. At least when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend you’re here,” he muses, his piano-playing never stopping. I start swaying, humming quietly as Michael’s warm-up morphs into a song I think I know. 

“What do you think about?” 

He sits quietly for a few beats, his playing getting gradually louder, but then softening when we wants to speak. “Us,” Michael says decisively, his foot easing against the sustaining pedal. “You. Me. Us. I’ve spent _hours_ playing, pretending that you’re here to listen, that you’re here to spend time with me. It’s crazy how one fucking customer can become your entire life by just showing his face every day.” 

A blush creeps over my face, and I find myself walking over to Michael’s piano bench. He scoots over a bit, his fingers never parting from the keys. I drop onto the wooden seat, my gaze following Michael’s sure digits as they dance across the piano. I don’t really know what I’m thinking or exactly what I want to say, but I start talking and I can’t help it. “You’ve been my entire summer. You’ve been my whole life for a month,” I chime, breathless. Michael’s playing isn’t as loud, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his music becomes deeper, more purposeful. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I _met_ you.” 

Why am I not stuttering?

”You’re the most talented, most humble, funniest, kindest, most authentic person I’ve ever met in my life. You’re so intelligent and knowing, and I can’t believe I got the chance to get to know you. That I’m _getting_ the chance to know you every day. My whole life, I haven’t even thought about being anything other than, like, straight and alone for the rest of my life. I just wanted to get by in school, make a few friends, get a girlfriend, get laid, I don’t know... Now, though, all I want to do...” 

Fuck, am I about to say it? 

“All I want to do is to be with you.” 

The music suddenly stops. Michael hasn’t looked at me for several minutes, but at that, he shifts his gaze from the keys to me, eyes glossy and brow furrowed. “Jeremy,” he finally murmurs, voice thick. “That’s all I want.” 

I choke on a laugh, slouching slightly. Michael’s face is glowing, the dimming light outside washing the entire room in a pink undertone. Michael snakes a hand behind my neck, pulling me close. He closes his eyes, and I feel mine flutter shut. Our lips meet softly, and I feel him sigh contently. God, this just feels so fucking genuine and sincere and it’s all I could ask for. I’m so happy I could cry. 

I pick my hands up off of the piano bench and place them on either side of Michael’s face, which is hot. We sit like that for a bit, teeth clashing awkwardly from time to time, but otherwise, it’s perfect. 

When Michael finally pulls back for air, he’s shaking and grinning. “Be my boyfriend,” he says, breathing heavily. “Jeremy, it’d be everything I could wish for and more. We’d go on dates and go downtown and on road trips. I could cook for you and play piano and teach you how to play a few songs. We’ll cuddle and watch shitty movies and spend every minute together. I just want to be with you. I... I think I might be in love with you.” 

My heart skips a beat. I must be fucking dreaming. Everything is glowing softly around the edges, blending together. I’m starting to feel lightheaded. In this moment, I’m not anxious or uncertain. Sure, Michael’s going to be gone for a while. After that, I’ll have school and theatre and other stuff going on, but being able to think about Michael in my future in terms of a romantic relationship makes every doubt fade away. 

“God, of course,” I reply breathlessly. 

Had I been asked a month ago if I thought that I’d be here right now, kissing Michael at his piano, drowning in the colors of the sunset, I would’ve laughed and probably make a comment about how I’m not gay, how I’m straight and would never consider it. How I don’t even like piano or sunsets, because they’re too cliché and tacky. 

Ask me the same question now and I’d probably be too busy basking in the moment to answer. 

———

Call it too sudden and too dramatic, but cuddling with Michael is my new favorite pastime. My body conforms perfectly to his, lining up so that we’re both at our peak comfort levels. I’m not even sure what movie we’re watching, but it looks like it may be _The Shining_. 

Michael’s arm is draped over my waist, pulling me closer against him. I can feel his cool breath on my ear, ruffling my hair. I wish that he didn’t have to go. 

“I think that you’re severely misunderstanding what I’m doing this month,” Michael interrupts me, because apparently I’m whining about how he’s leaving me again. He plants a small kiss on the skin behind my ear, resting his head against mine. “I’m playing a few concerts, like, events, and staying a few nights in a hotel in Pittsburgh. After that, I’m coming home for a few days, then going up to Philadelphia to meet with that piano company and do some work for them. Play the piano, promote their products, I don’t know. That’s only a week or so, and you’re more than welcome to come with me.” 

I melt against Michael and groan quietly. “I know, but that’s still a long time. We _just_ started dating,” I complain pointlessly. Truth be told, I’m thrilled for Michael. As I’ve said before, I’m so proud of his accomplishments and so happy that other people get to hear what a blessing his playing is. However, I’d rather keep him all to myself. If I did go with him to Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, I feel like I’d just be distracting him from his greater potential, which is the last thing I’d ever want to do. Michael chuckles softly and readjusts, moving a leg over my own and tucking his foot between my calves. 

“I’ll call and text every single day. You said you’d come see a show, though,” he reminds me, and I nod, my mind not even on the movie we’re watching. “Yeah, I know. I will, I am. I just have to figure out which one, where it is, when it is, and how I’ll get there.” 

Michael huffs and clicks his tongue. “If you just came up there with me, I could find you a room in the hotel we’re staying at, or you could probably stay in mine, I don’t know,” he continues, but I just shake my head slowly. “I can’t,” I reply sadly. “I just got a maybe-job, and I still have to talk to him and stuff. When I come up to see your show, maybe I can stay with you after that. When do you even leave? I still have therapy to go to and stuff. Plus, my theatre group is putting on a performance some time next month, and I can’t miss that.” I feel Michael slouch ever so slightly, his hand stretched across my stomach and toying with the fabric of my shirt. 

Finally, after a few minutes of silence, Michael nods again. “Right, okay. As long as you promise you’ll come to at least one show,” he makes me swear, and I smile. “Also, I’m coming to that performance. Don’t think I’m not. Don’t try to convince me not to.” 

I laugh breathlessly and turn my head so that I can see Michael’s very serious face, which is glowing from the television’s soft colors. The lights are off, and we’re under the covers in Michael’s bed. His parents are apparently having a date night, so they won’t be home for a while. My dad’s probably wondering where I’m at, but I’m too comfortable to reach for my phone and text him. 

“Fine,” I say, almost forgetting that Michael had said something. “Okay. And don’t worry, I’m coming to at least one of your shows. You’ll just have to text me the details, because I’m still not getting this whole PMS thing.” 

Michael snorts. “It’s _PMEA_ ,” he corrects me, kissing my neck. 

I want to stay like this forever, but I also know that I need to get home so that I can get some sleep and mentally prepare myself for a legitimate interview tomorrow. “As much as I love you and as much as I’d love to stay, I need to get going,” I murmur reluctantly, squirming as Michael pulls me closer and burrows his head in the crook of my neck. “No, _stay_ ,” he whines, and I sigh, trying to pry him off of me. 

“I wish I could,” I respond softly, and his grip loosens. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

The words are probably a bit premature for a relationship, and I really haven’t known Michael long at all, but that just makes me feel like we have a deeper connection. I really do love him, and knowing that I only met him a month ago helps me better appreciate and understand my feelings for him. Even if I don’t get to see him for a while, I’ll make things work no matter what price I have to pay. 

I sit up with a grunt, pushing myself off the bed. “You’re not walking home by yourself. At least let me drive you,” Michael insists, and I hesitantly comply. 

“Fine. Oh, tell me about your experience with braces on the way. I have a few notes.” 

———

We pull up to my mailbox, the cool, dark night embracing me as I open my door. I look at Michael with a frown on my face, searching his face even in the absence of light. “Michael?” I ask quietly, ignoring the quiet hum of cicadas outside the car. Michael looks over at me and smiles sadly. “Hm?” 

“I’m really going to miss you,” I whimper, leaning over to throw my arms around Michael. He returns my embrace without hesitation, sniffling quietly and pulling me closer. “Shut up, it’s literally a few days,” he says tearfully, but we both know that it’s probably going to be closer to a week. I know that I’m overreacting, especially since I have his phone number now and permission to bother him with texts and calls whenever I want. However, I can’t help but think about those two weeks of agony not too long ago, where we didn’t talk to each other because of some stupid kiss.

That’s what this reminds me of, and I feel like Michael’s going to end up being away for a lot longer than he has planned. That’s what happens when you’re talented and people want to watch you grow. “Yeah, but... Okay. You’re right. I love you,” I whisper certainly, not sure what the next few weeks hold but positive that no matter what happens, Michael and I will lay down just about anything to make our relationship work. It’s my first relationship, so I really don’t know anything about love or romance, but Michael seems to be a natural leader. 

I trust him. 

He pulls away and kisses me gently, and I close my eyes so that I can fully focus my attention on his lips against mine. He’s warm and smells good and makes me feel at peace with myself. “I’ll probably bug you with how much I text,” Michael warns me after pulling back, and I think I can see him winking. I scoff and roll my eyes. “Nah, I’ll annoy _you_ ,” I counter, getting out of the car. Michael reaches for my hand before I can and squeezes it, smiling gently. 

“See you soon,” he promises, and I nod. I will see him soon, just not soon enough. 

“You too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaAAAAH


	24. June 30 - Part 1

I wish that I wasn’t the most emotional person to exist on the face of this planet. Honestly, I cried during that movie _Sing_. Actual sobs. Like, as soon as their stage broke, that’s when I started crying, and I didn’t stop until the credits started rolling. Everyone in the theater stared at me like I was a fucking weirdo, especially since I was a teenager watching a movie aimed at younger demographics. 

It’s no wonder why I’m on my patio bawling at nine in the morning, head tucked against my bent knees. Really, I’m not exactly sure why I’m crying, but it probably has something to do with Michael. Actually, I _know_ that it has something to do with Michael. If I cry in the house, my dad would probably hear, so I instead, I have to sob outside like a damn baby. I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, and I wipe my nose on my shirt sleeve and take it out of my sweatpants. It’s Michael. With a shaky breath, I blink away my tears, then answer his call, trying to harden my tone. 

“H-ey,” my voice cracks, betraying me. Fuck my stupid pubescent tendencies. This makes me cry even harder, sobs racking my body as I lean back against my legs, phone still held to my ear. Michael’s asking about what’s wrong and if I’m okay. “D-Do I _sound_ oka-a-ay?” I snap, inhaling sharply and shoving my knees against my forehead. Michael goes silent on the other end of the line for a moment, then some noise and static fill my ear. 

A moment later, I hear Michael set down the phone, a familiar creaking noise following, then piano. Of course it’s the worst quality imaginable, but Michael’s playing the piano for me. _For me_. Because I’m fucking _sobbing_ and can’t cope with emotions like a normal teenage boy. I let myself cry and sniffle, steadying my breathing so that I can actually hear the crackling piano over the phone. I let all of my thoughts overtake me, purposefully making myself an anxious mess so that I can just get the worst part over with. 

What if when Michael’s gone, he forgets about me? What if I turn out just like his boyfriend, and it turns out that I’m straight after all? Unlikely, but when I’m nervous, anything goes. What if Michael comes back from his trip and says that he’s found someone else? Someone more talented and more interesting? Fuck, it’s not hard. In fact, literally everyone is more talented than I am. I have no defining qualities, no hidden gifts, no gifts, actually. The piano continues playing, and I try to focus on the notes so that I can calm my conscience. The music gets louder, and even though it’s over the phone, the fact that Michael’s playing the piano for me, this early in the morning, it’s just so much. I love him so much. 

My crying is starting to fade, as is Michael’s playing. When he completely stops, I’m barely shaking, hiccuping on occasion. Michael picks the phone back up, his soft breathing filling my ear. “Better?” 

I nod, then realize that he can’t even see. “Y-Yeah, sorry,” I apologize stupidly, wiping away my tears. Michael sighs quietly. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks, and I hesitate, but if he wants to date the real me, he’s going to have to become comfortable and very in tune with anxiety-ridden Jeremy. “Are you sure?” I venture, and Michael’s hum in reply is good enough for me. I bite my lip before I say anything, making sure that I don’t say something stupid. 

“It’s just... Michael, I’m literally the most bo-oring person on this planet,” I explain breathlessly, sighing. “I’m talentless, I’m ugly, I’m pretty stupid, I’m clumsy... I’m just afraid that you’ll, uh, find someone else, I guess. Like God, we just started dating, and it’s so dumb that I’m worrying about something so retarded. I’m sorry.” Michael stays quiet for a few moments, making me feel even worse. I know that I sound ridiculous, protective, jealous, sobbing at this fucking hour, but I’m genuinely upset and Michael not judging me for it would be great. 

“You know when I first met you at _Tastyland_?” Michael asks simply, like he didn’t just hear me bawl like a baby because I was afraid he’d leave me. Taken aback, I shrug. “Sure, why?” 

Silence. 

He takes a breath and exhales loudly. “The first time I even saw you, like, Jeremy, I had already fallen in love. You’re quirky. You’re weird. You’re fucking adorable. You’re so smart and cute and interesting. From what I can tell, you’re an amazing actor, and your love and support literally cannot be matched by any other good feeling in this world. Do you understand me?” 

I tap my foot against the porch step beneath me. “Yeah,” I reply hesitantly, but I can’t really understand what he’s saying. How can you tell you like someone just from seeing them once? 

“Jeremy Heere, if you ever talk about yourself like that again, I’m going to drown you with affection. Seriously Jere, I’m not kidding. I just finished packing and I’m coming by your house to say goodbye. Again. Love you.” Before I get a chance to say something, Michael hangs up, and the line beeps a few time before going quiet.

God, I’m such a kid.  

I can’t believe that Michael has to come over to my house to hush me and make me feel better. Maybe he was going to come over before I started sobbing like a fucking baby. I groan and set my phone down next to me, tucking my face back into my crossed arms. I’m not sure when my dad’s going to wake up, but I do know that he doesn’t know I’m dating Michael, he doesn’t know about my new job, and I doubt that he knows anything about what I’ve been doing this last month. He probably wouldn’t care, anyways.

I wait on my porch for Michael to stop by, and I seriously start considering going with him. I’d love to be there with him all day every day, but he’ll get bored of me for sure.

I at least need to go talk to the dude who owns the _Tastyland_ cart so that he knows I’m a good employee, but I guess it’s also kind of an interview thing. Plus, I really want to make some money so that I can start taking Michael on dates, getting him presents so that I can show him how much I love and adore him. I have high hopes for this relationship, as silly as that sounds, but I really, really love Michael. 

With a soft hum, Michael’s car pulls up to my driveway. He drives this shitty PT Cruiser that I’m sure is all part of his aesthetic, but I don’t know what else I’d expect. He throws his door open after shifting his car into into park, running up my driveway. I stand up shakily, still sniffling every now and then, holding my arms open for him to embrace me and squeeze me and love me because I’m a baby with no sense of confidence or courage apparently. He scoops me up, burrowing his face into my hair. “Jeremy,” he murmurs, kissing my hair. 

I giggle and hold him, setting my head on his shoulder. He’s so warm and sweet and I really don’t want him to leave, even if I get to see him soon. 

“Don’t go,” I plead again, even though of course I wouldn’t let him stay. He’s so talented and gifted and he has to go out into bigger cities to show off how _cool_ he is. Michael sighs against me, his hands running along the small of my back thoughtfully. “I have to,” he replies just above a whisper, kissing my ear. “Please come with me.” I sigh just like he did, leaning back to look up at him. “I can’t.” 

We kind of chuckle and smile for a few quiet minutes, the chirping of morning crickets and the dewy atmosphere of the start of a Pennsylvania day our background. 

“Just remember to be yourself. He’s gonna love you,” Michael tells me, and I forget about my job interview thing for a few seconds. I nod and go back to hugging him. “Be yourself. I’m coming to your show. Or shows, I don’t know. I love you,” I repeat, and he pulls back to press his lips into mine, soft air from his nose tickling my face. I melt against Michael’s touch, moving my hands to his chest. He’s wearing a knit sweater with small white dots all over it, which is adorable. I love him. 

Michael finally pulls back and gazes at me sadly, but he’s still smiling. “You’re everything. I love you. Please call me on my way to Pittsburgh because it’s so, so far away,” he begs, and I giggle. “Duh.” 

Michael kisses me one more time and then walks down my front porch steps, back to his car. Before climbing back in, he waves and blows a kiss. “Careful not to melt everything you touch when you work at _Tastyland_ ,” he calls, sliding into his car. “Get it? Hot stuff melts cold stuff. Love you!” 

I roll my eyes and wave back. “Love you too.”

With that, Michael closes his car door, honks twice, and then pulls into my driveway to turn around. I watch longingly as he hauls down the road, and then my phone starts buzzing from the ground. I lean down to pick it up, answering it. “Hello?” I ask, watching Michael leave. 

“I have one hour in the car by myself. Talk dirty to me,” Michael’s laughing voice comes, and I wonder how long it came him to come up with that. 

I snort and watch as Michael’s PT Cruiser makes a left turn away from the road. “I don’t do phone sex after one day of dating,” I reply blankly, turning around to go back inside. “Tell me a story.” 

I may not get to _see_ Michael for a few days, but talking to him on the phone makes up for it partly. It doesn’t even surmount to the blessing of being around Michael, but it’s close enough. 

“Hm. Oh, I’ll tell you about the time the mailman and I bonded over Bob Marley because I was high off my ass and walked out of the house on a Tuesday morning without underwear or anything else on. However, I _did_ have a bag from Jamaica on slung across my chest, so that’s what started it,” Michael chirps, and I chuckle quietly. God, I love this boy. 


	25. June 30 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanna say that jeremy has a bit of an anxiety/panic attack at the end of the chapter. it’s caused by his general anxiety and stuff that happens, but i don’t wanna offend someone by calling it a panic attack 
> 
> if you don’t wanna read it, feel free to skip, and i’ll summarize it at the end for you :)

I’m near hyperventilation as I check the text for the twenty-seventh time in the past minute: 

**THIS PERSON IS NOT IN YOUR CONTACT LIST:** _Jeremy, hello! I’m glad that you’re interested in the position. Michael’s told me great things! I can meet you tomorrow at two in the afternoon for lunch at Sunset Café if that works for you. Please text back a confirmation so I know that you’re available. Thank you, and have a great day._

That was yesterday, and I’ve since texted Mr. Johnson back, but I’m standing here outside of _Sunset Café_ and he’s still not here. Is there another place in town with the exact same name or something? Is it even two? Why am I so sweaty? Why am I breathing so hard? I start shaking as a man about my height approaches me. He has light hair and a really big nose, which I can’t help but stare at. “Jeremy Heere?” he asks, stepping up to me. I swallow and realize that this must be the man of the hour. God, he looks more professional than I had imagined. 

“Y-Yes, and you must be-e Mr. Johnson,” I stammer, trying to grin sincerely. He returns my smile and stretches out both of his hands, shaking mine with one and setting his other hand on top of it firmly. 

“Pleasure to meet you!” Mr. Johnson beams, and I just smile weakly. I’m at a loss for words; I’ve never had a real interview before. “It’s incredibly hot out here. Shall we go inside?” I inhale shakily and nod, scrambling to open the door for him. He bows slightly and then walks inside, and I follow him in. God, I’m trembling so hard. I wish that Michael was here. 

We wait to be seated in silence, and I awkwardly rock back on my heels. I don’t know what to say or what to do, so I wait for Mr. Johnson to start the conversation. 

After the waiter leads us to a booth and we settle in, Mr. Johnson clears his throat, clasping his hands together on the table. Mine are shaking against my tapping feet, sweating profusely. Fuck, I can’t talk to adults. What am I doing? I’m going to blow this. “So, Jeremy, how old are you?” Mr. Johnson starts, glaring at me intensely. 

I feel a lump form in my throat. 

“Uh, I’m seventeen,” I manage to squeak, chuckling nervously and leaning forward a bit to readjust. He nods and taps a finger against his hand. “How are your grades in school? Enjoying your summer?” 

God, this is like a fucking exam. What am I supposed to say to that?

I nod and swallow hard. “Y-Yeah, it’s going pretty, uh, well, thanks. My grades are f-fine. They’re not outstanding, but, uh, I’m an A student for the mo-ost part,” I say slowly, trying not to stutter or die on the spot. It’s harder than one may think, actually. Mr. Johnson smiles and inclines his head slightly. 

“That’s good to hear,” he comments, clearing his throat again. “It’s a summer job, as I’m sure Michael has told you. Have you ever worked in fast food or the food industry at all?” 

I shake my head. 

“Any job experience?” 

I remember my internship at my dad’s office, but if I say that I worked at my dad’s office, it’d sound like I got the position just because my dad worked there. That’s pretty much what happened, too. 

“W-Well,” I start, taking a breath. “I did an internship at a real estate office last su-ummer. I mainly just st-stapled things and made copies, but it was a good experience.” Jesus, why’d I say that? I sound like a fucking moron. 

Mr. Johnson hums and nods. “So nothing in food? Alright, that’s okay. What about your strengths? What would you say they are?” 

Fuck, my _strengths_? Honestly, nonexistent. “I’d like to say that I’m pretty organized,” I venture to say, scanning Mr. Johnson’s face nervously, searching for any sign that I’m doing a good job or appealing to him. “I, uh, I’m a pretty clean person. I’m respectful. Sorry, I don’t th-think there’s anything else.” I feel like crying. Why is it so hard to talk to him? Why can’t I physically bring myself to talk to Mr. Johnson like a normal fucking person? 

“That’s okay, those are great assets,” he assures me, smiling like he feels bad for me. God, he probably feels so bad for me. Poor stuttering teenager with a fucking pepperoni pizza as a face, right? Can’t even hold up his end of the conversation. Pathetic. 

“What about weaknesses? Self-improvement is something that comes with learning on the job, in my opinion,” Mr. Johnson continues, and honestly, that list is quite extensive. With a sigh, I straighten my posture. “I’m not great with t-talking to people, as you can probably tell,” I prove my point, and he shrugs slightly, but I know for a fact he agrees. “I’m a bit of a pushover. Uh, I’m not all that p-patient.” 

The waiter returns to ask what we want to drink, and I just ask for a glass of water. Mr. Johnson orders a cup of coffee, no cream, no sugar. God, I’m lulling him to sleep. This man scares me. He takes his coffee black? 

“I understand that,” he agrees, but with which part, I’m not too sure. “Let me tell you a bit about the position. You’d be managing the shop from nine to five every day, but I’m very flexible with hours if you have somewhere to be. You’d be filling customers’ orders, meaning you’d have to talk to them and appeal to their personalities. Michael was really good at changing his attitude to match certain customers’ personalities, which is a wonderful trait to have. Also, you’d have to count change, organize change, open and close shop every day... You get what I’m saying?” 

I nod as the server returns with drinks, asking what we want to eat. Mr. Johnson, who I’m guessing has come here before, orders some sort of ravioli. I pray that they have fettuccine alfredo or something, because that’s what I’m asking for. Luckily, the waiter nods and takes our menus, then disappears.

Mr. Johnson takes a sip of his drink and then turns his attention back to me. “Michael said that you like theatre. My son likes theatre, too, but he’s too ‘cool’ to admit it,” he tests the waters, like he’s trying to connect with me. Unfortunately, it’s not working. I wish that I could just touch a button and make myself talk to him like I’m not about to pass out. 

“Y-Yeah,” is all I can say, and I just stare at my water blankly. Mr. Johnson doesn’t talk to me for several more minutes. 

“Any summer plans?” he finally asks, and I look up slowly. “N-No. I’m, uh, supposed to go see Michael play soon. I might stay with him in Pittsburgh or Philadelphia, I don’t know.” Fuck, I sound so pathetic and sad. Mr. Johnson gives me an interested look, but it fades because it’s fake and, let’s face it, I’m not interesting. Suddenly, his phone starts vibrating. We sit awkwardly as it continues. 

“You can t-take it,” I tell him, and he hesitates before pulling his phone out of his breast pocket. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes before answering it, holding the phone to his ear. 

I try not to listen to his conversation, but rather focus on my glass again. I’m starting to fucking tear up. God, I knew that this would be a bad idea. I really thought that for once, I could talk to an adult and not sound like a damn mess. Silly me, right? Jesus, I’m so dumb. I miss Michael already. 

Mr. Johnson sets down his phone and gives me an apologetic look, but he looks nervous. “Jeremy, I’m deeply sorry. I have an emergency at one of the gas stations that I own. Something about a robbery. I have to leave,” he explains quickly, sliding out of the booth and looking down at me sadly. “I apologize again. I’ll, uh, I’ll get back to you.” 

I don’t really process what he says until he’s practically running out the door, and just like that, my interview’s over. I’m at a table by myself with two drinks and two orders on their way. Fuck, why did I agree to this? 

Damnit. 

———

I slip back into my house around four. I had taken a while to eat my pasta, then I walked around town yet again to pass some time and let off steam before I had a meltdown. 

My dad’s sitting at the table, staring at me harshly as I close the door behind me. “Jeremy, where’ve you been all day?” he inquires, and I try to blow it off. I can’t handle this right now. I just fucked up my job interview, and the last thing I need is an argument with my dad. “Out in town.” 

“Jeremiah,” he presses, his face reddening. I just want to go cry in my bed. “Where have you _been_? You say that you go to town every day. What do you do down there? You disappear for days at a time, _without_ telling me, then show up randomly and give me attitude. What have you been up to? Are you okay?” Jesus, can he just let this go? “Dad,” I reply weakly, throat sore, “I don’t want to talk about this right now. Can we drop it?” 

My dad furrows his brow and picks up his arms, shaking his head in confusion. “Jeremy, what are you talking about, ‘ _drop it_ ’? Son, this is ridiculous. I never see you. You’re not an adult. I’m... Jeremy, I‘m your dad. I’m your parent! You’re supposed to listen to me and respect me!” 

I feel anger bubbling inside my chest, threatening to spill over. He’s really pushing me today. “Dad, _stop_ ,” I grunt, shoving my hands in my pockets so that they aren’t shaking so bad.

He stands up and shoves his chair back under the table, then approaches me with heavy feet. “Jeremiah Heere, where have you been? What have you been doing? Answer me. Why do you keep going out of town? Why do you keep going into town? You have that new friend, Michael, but you never tell me when you’re visiting him or hanging out with him. Just talk to me, I’m your dad.” 

“I go into town to hang out with him,” I explain through clenched teeth. “Stop being so damn nosy!” He’s starting to piss me off. I know that I shouldn’t start swearing at him, especially since he hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m in a really awful mood. 

He’s glaring at me, face hot. “Don’t get that tone with me,” he says in a warning voice. He’s shaking. “You’re treading thin ice.” 

Now probably isn’t the time to mouth off. “You can’t do anything about it,” I spit, walking away. Then I remember that I’m supposed to go to one of Michael’s shows. 

“I’m going to be gone this week, too, since my life and wellbeing are so important to you all of a sudden,” I state, fuming. “Going to stay with Michael in Pittsburgh because he’s playing a few shows. I think I’ll go with him to Philly, too.” I start stamping away, footsteps echoing off of the hallway walls. I hear my dad following me. 

I quickly slip into my room, trying to slam the door shut. However, my dad stops me, yanking the door open grabbing my arm with a new force that I’ve never felt from him. He’s actually steaming. I try to pull my arm from his grip, but he’s not letting up. I start to panic. Fuck, I went too far. “You’re not going _anywhere_ this week. Y-You’re grounded! For... For the summer! The entire summer!” I feel hot tears brimming my waterline, threatening to spill. 

“Yes I am!” I scream, face burning. This can’t be fucking happening. My dad leans down and scowls at me. “No, you’re not. You’re... I’m taking you to work with me. I’m tired of you pretending like you’re more mature than you are. You’re seventeen! You’re not an adult, Jeremy!”

I’m sobbing now. He’s actually grounding me. 

“D-Dad, please!” I beg tearfully, choking on a sob. His glare softens momentarily, but then returns as I try to pull away from him again. “No!” he cries, grip tightening. My arm is going numb. “I’m tired of this! You’re not going to any of Michael’s shows, you’re not going to hang out with your other friends, and you’re not going to theatre group anymore.” 

My heart is actually breaking. I have to be dreaming. “I’m so sorry!” I sob, growing weaker. “Dad, please! Dad, I’m so sorry! Dad, please don’t! I... Dad, I have to go! I need to see Michael!” 

He’s not listening. 

“I’m sure if Michael’s such a good friend, he’ll understand that you can’t make it,” he growls, and I shake. Maybe I should tell him the truth. Maybe he’d go easier on my punishment. 

“Dad, he’s not my friend!” I whimper. “He’s... Michael’s my boyfriend! I need to see him play!”

My dad stops. His grip on my arm loosens, and his eyes are glossy now. The only sounds that fill the doorway and the hall are my sobs, which just keep coming. “I... I had a job interview today!” I try weakly, voice quaking. “I just wanted to do something with my summer. I’m so tired of being a loser, Dad. I really screwed up the interview, and Michael’s concerts are the only thing I have going for my summer. Please.”

It’s like he’s not even listening. 

“You’ve been dating Michael all this time? Behind my back?” he asks, accusation dripping from his words. I swallow hard and shake my head quickly. “N-No! We just started dating yesterday. I wa-as gonna tell you,” I sputter, and he lets go of my arm. I let it fall to my side. 

My dad just looks at me in horror and starts to close the door, and I fall against it in emotional agony. “Dad, I’m so sorry!” I repeat, and he closes the door quietly. 

Fuck, this has to be the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I fall to the ground, doubling over with sobs, shaking. I can’t breathe. My breathing comes in labored, long gulps, and my head starts spinning. Everything is blurring. Black lines my vision. My chest hurts so bad. I grab at my shirt wildly, hyperventilating as I try to breathe.

I can’t. I feel like I’m drowning and I’m running out of air. 

God, I really fucked this up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so basically jeremy’s dad gets really upset bc jeremy hasn’t been talking to him and literally disappears for days at a time. jeremy gets super snappy and a bit of an uH asshole 
> 
> his dad says he can’t see michael play and grounds him fr so jeremy comes out and his dad’s mad that he didn’t tell him sooner and jeremy basically takes it as a homophobic reaction 
> 
> it’s really sad im so sorry i did this to you guys ahhh


	26. July 1 - Part 1

The car ride is eerily silent. I stare blankly at my forearm, running my thumb along the bruises left from my dad holding onto it so tightly. They’re sore and stick out against my pale skin, a stark contrast.

I haven’t spoken since last night, but my throat is still incredibly dry and sore. I didn’t think that my dad would actually come into my room at eight and tell me to get out of bed and to get ready, so imagine my surprise when he knocked on my door harshly and told me to get out of bed. The feeling was awful, sinking, degrading. I didn’t think that he’d really follow through, but I saw a side of him last night that I had never seen in my entire life. I’m still shuddering at his darkened expression, the way he spat the words out like he was disgusted. 

Who knew that my dad was homophobic?

Maybe he isn’t, but I don’t feel like giving him the benefit of the doubt. I know that I should take responsibility for the outburst, especially since I haven’t been communicating my whereabouts very well. He’s just concerned, I get it. 

However, this is extreme. This is beyond okay, beyond normalcy. He’s completely cutting me off because what, I have a boyfriend? I didn’t talk to him about where I was? I talked back? We should probably talk this whole thing through, but we’re both stubborn as hell and still shaking from the vivid memories, and God, they’re so vivid. I caution to cast a sideways glance at my dad, frowning at his blank expression. Doesn’t he feel bad? Doesn’t he feel awful? He should. 

We finally pull into the parking lot at the real estate office where my dad works, and he wordlessly shuts off the car and gets out, slamming his door behind him. 

I watch from the passenger seat as he treads up the walkway, taking a deep breath before opening the front door and disappearing into the building. I have half the mind to get out of the car and run away from this mess, but that would just cause more problems. My best chance at getting him to take all of this back is to just play it cool and listen, to respect him and obey. This is all new to me, because he was never the dominant parent in the house when my mom was around.

In fact, the opposite. We had a good relationship, really; we were ride-or-die. He always had my back and could get me out of trouble, and I’m sure he felt the same way about me. My mother thought it to be the sweetest thing, but apparently not sweet enough for her to stay much longer. 

I shake off the memories and check my phone for the first time since my lunch with Mr. Johnson. A long list of notifications blink on my screen, which is a new occurrence. I have friends, sure, but they rarely reach out. I scroll through my lock screen and see that the notifications are just texts and texts from Michael. A single missed call notification displays Michael’s name next to the number seventeen. Seventeen missed calls from Michael. I really don’t feel like answering him, but I have nothing better to do with my time.

Upon unlocking my phone, I open my messaging app, then read through the dozens of texts from Michael, just picking out certain ones. 

 **Michael:** _hey cutie, how’d that interview go?? i’m sure you were great!_

 **Michael:** _just checked into my hotel omfg it took foREVER_

 **Michael:** _you still interviewing? alright take ur time i’ll be here probably finding porn to jack off to_

 **Michael:** _jk probably jack off to u ;))_

 **Michael:** _fuck, too soon? my bad_

 **Michael:** _not really_

I release an amused breath of air, then scroll down a bit, skipping some messages. 

 **Michael:** _gettig worried u know ahh wya_

 **Michael:** _i meant getting but it b like that sometimes_

 **Michael:** _jere fr buddy hah whERE are you_

 **Michael:** _i just got back from orientation. these kids are talented^2 i don’t fit in here_

 **Michael:** _ok guess a) ur phone died or b) you died_

 **Michael:** _here i’ll throw in a c) for free_

 **Michael:** _u hate me and ur breaking up w me bc i’m lame and a talentless fucc haaaa_

 **Michael:** _okay it’s really late now_

 **Michael:** _not really_

 **Michael:** _when r u coming to my show?? i got a sched_

 **Michael:** _ig i’m going to sleep without my nightly dose of jeremy :((_

 **Michael:** _love you_

**Michael:** _dork_

My heart hurts. My chest is aching. I don’t want to tell Michael that I’m not coming because I got grounded, but maybe I can convince my dad to let me go after all. 

I scoff at the idea. Unlikely, since we can barely talk to each other at this date and time. A few more texts from this morning light up my screen as I scroll past them, my thumbs hovering over the text box. Do I reply? Do I tell Michael the truth? Wait, if I’m grounded, then why didn’t my dad take away my phone? 

Suddenly, the driver door opens, and my dad slips into the seat. He has a gray folder in one hand and a set of keys in the other. He closes the door and shoves his car keys into the ignition. 

He has to show off a house this early? I didn’t even know he did that. 

Just like that, we’re back on the road, my dad’s driving erratic and jerky at times. He’s scaring the living daylights out of me. Silence makes the air stuffy, and I still haven’t typed out a reply to Michael, my thumbs hovering over my now-blank phone screen. Fortunately, I don’t think that Michael will be able to tell that I read his texts, because he has an _iPhone_ and I have a really weird knock-off phone that my dad got from signing up with a cell service company and then cutting off his contract directly following. 

We’re suckers for free shit. 

My stomach twists as I remember the way I yelled at my dad, the way I accused him of not caring about me. It was awful, I know, but I still can’t fully put the blame on myself. It’s just not possible at this point in time. 

The ride lasts a few more minutes before we’re pulling into a driveway of a large house behind a red minivan, and I see a group of people standing together outside of the garage. From what I can tell, they’re a family. My dad huffs and leaves the keys in the ignition, pausing like he’s about to say something. However, the motivation drains from his face, and he grabs the keys and the folder and gets out of the car, smiling at the family. He closes his door and walks up the driveway with an outstretched arm. And I’m left in the car. Again. 

Not knowing whether or not I should talk to Michael about what’s happening. 

What if he’s at rehearsal or whatever they’re supposed to be doing? He told me that everyone already knew the songs, but that playing together was completely different, so they’d have to rehearse a lot. He was definitely lying when he’d said that he’d only be gone a few days. My chest tightens as I realize that I’m not even allowed to go watch him play because I couldn’t shut my fucking mouth. Also because my dad can never find a medium between uninvolved and overprotective. 

An hour must go by before my dad emerges from the house with the family. Have I really just been sitting here thinking? Probably, I wouldn’t be too surprised. He seems a lot less tense, which sparks a light of hope inside of me. Maybe he’ll listen to reason, if I can even bring myself to talk. 

He opens the door and slides in with a soft smile, and I stare at him expectantly. What the fuck is he so happy about? He’s actively ruining my summer. With a soft sigh, he shuts his door and buckles himself in. Without saying anything, he pulls the car out of the driveway, and I stare at him in disbelief. Is he not even going to say anything? Is he just going to sit there and look smug? 

We drive out of the neighborhood, then past his office, then turn down the street to our neighborhood. Doesn’t he have to go back to work? In a few minutes, we pull into our driveway, and he puts the car in park, waiting. For what? I don’t know. 

“Go pack up,” he states simply, smile never faltering. “Grab some cash from the tin box on top of the fridge. Go... Go to Pittsburgh.” 

I’m really not processing all of this. 

What about his showing made him make a complete one-eighty? I’m honestly more scared than anything. What’s happening? “Hurry up before I change my mind. Get a taxi. Call me when you get there.” Without completely understanding, I slowly climb out of the car, shaking. Is he kicking me out? Is he really trying to make amends without apologizing? I don’t know whether or not to argue. I close the car door and step back, and then he drives away. 

Oh my God, what’s happening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? can’t stand jeremy and his dad fighting for more than 1000 words?? it’s more likely than you make think 
> 
> ++psa i love mr heere he deserves better


	27. July 1 - Part 2

I don’t think that I’ve ever been more confused in my entire life. My dad made a _complete_ turnaround in less than an hour, and it’s giving me the worst kind of anxiety. As I shakily throw clothes into a suitcase that I found under my dad’s bed, I keep thinking, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

He was angry I was out of the house without permission and that I was dating someone behind his back and didn’t communicate my whereabouts often enough. He grounded me. He said I could see Michael. He made me go with him to work, didn’t talk to me until after he came back from showing a house. Then, he dropped me off at our house and told me to go watch Michael play, basically becoming a brand new person all of a sudden. The shift hurt me and confused me and angered me a bit, but I can live with it. 

Hey, at least I get to see Michael. 

Finding a cab to Pittsburgh is pretty easy, especially since it’s only an hour away. Trying to figure out how I feel about all of this is a lot harder. I pick up my phone and call my dad again, but it goes straight to voicemail. Again. 

“Hey,” I croak into the phone, voice sore from lack of use. “Calling again because, y’know, you went from hating me and my boyfriend to shoving me into a cab basically. Yeah, I’d appreciate you calling me back. Dad.”

The angst in my voice is unreal, but he has to know that he’s being a bit unreasonable and unpredictable. My uncertainty regarding the situation only furthers my anxious packing. God, I just want to be with Michael. I chuckle as I remember how we cuddled the night before last, how warm his arms were, how comfortable I was. Michael is certain. Michael is predictable, to some extent. I feel knowing when I’m around him, like I don’t have to worry about what’s coming next or where I’m going with my life. My lack of confidence in my dialogue just disappears, and for the most part, I can say anything around him without feeling nervous or regretful. 

My phone vibrates as soon as I set it down on my desk, and I quickly move to scoop it back up because it might be my dad. No, just another text from Michael. 

 **Michael:** _jere, ur really scaring me... is everything okay?? please just answer or smth idk_

I groan guiltily and bring my free hand to my forehead, rubbing my temple. In all of my confusion, telling Michael that I’m on my way completely slipped my mind. My heart heavy in my chest, I open my phone and call Michael. The line doesn’t even ring before he picks up, voice dripping with concern. 

“Jeremy!” he screams into my ear, and I wince. Shit, that didn’t feel great. I open my mouth to say something, but Michael’s already going at it. “Jeremy, oh my God, you have no idea what I’ve been going through! I was worried sick, damnit! I thought you like died or something! I thought you hated me!” I let Michael berate me for a few more minutes, my first chance to speak a brief moment where he’s trying to catch his breath. “Micah,” I say steadily, not sure where the nickname even came from, “I need you to just listen. Where’s the show tonight? Where’s it at?” 

Michael scoffs on the other end of the line. “I’m mad at you, you’re not supposed to be sounding so cute right now,” he whines, and I feel a hot blush creep over my cheeks. We’ve been dating for barely a day and I feel like it’s been forever already. 

“ _Michael_ ,” I press, and he sighs, giving up. “Fine,” he replies dreadfully, clicking his tongue. “It’s, like, _Bernstein Bears Performing Arts Center_ or something like that, I don’t know. Oh, wait, kidding, first trumpet says it’s _Benedum Center for Performing Arts_. Should be starting at five.” I repeat the words in my head over and over until I can remember them, nodding slowly. “Alright, see you then,” I promise, almost hanging up. Wait, fuck. That’s not fair. Michael didn’t do anything wrong. 

“How’s everything going?” I ask apologetically, and I can almost imagine Michael’s pouting face. “Fine, but better since I can actually hear your voice. How long are you staying?” he inquires absently, and I set a pair of shoes in my suitcase. “As long as you want.” 

Michael gasps and giggles, then stops. “Shit, that was the gayest shit I’ve ever done,” he cuts himself off, laughing again anyways. I miss him so much. “Tell me everything that’s been happening lately when you get here so I know why you completely abandoned me and stuff.” 

“It’s been, like, a day.” 

“Tell me everything, hear me? I love you,” Michael interjects, and I can hear him smiling. With a soft grin, I press the phone against my cheek, wishing that I was already in Pittsburgh with my boyfriend and his talented new friends. “Alright. Love you too,” I respond, then hang up. Not feeling as guilty, I finish packing up clothes, then move to basically empty out my bathroom. Bottles upon bottles of acne wash go in, along with my toothpaste, my toothbrush, floss, gargle, lotion, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and other toiletries. 

This is a pretty big suitcase. 

As I sit on the luggage bag to smush everything in, I hear a short honk from my front yard. I peel back my curtain, which is actually closed for once, and look out. Taxi’s here. I feel a flight of panic in my chest as I zip up my bag with difficulty, then speed to the kitchen to grab something to eat for lunch. For some reason, I have a cheese pizza _Lunchable_ in the fridge, so I grab that and then bolt out the door, locking it behind me.

I’m still confused beyond my thinking capacity, but I do know that I get to go see Michael, who I miss and love. Everything's going to be perfectly fine, just like it always is.  


	28. July 1 - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh jere gets his peepee succ so that’s marked w a (***) if you don’t wanna read it 
> 
> i should change the rating on this fic shouldn’t i :))

I don’t really know where I’m at, and I also don’t know where I’m supposed to be meeting Michael. It’s well before five, but I don’t even know what hotel he’s staying at, or where he’s practicing for the show. Fuck, I don’t know how this stuff works. 

With a hopeful sigh, I wheel my suitcase through the doors of the center, which is sporting a huge banner that’s announcing the next few nights of _PMEA_  jazz performances. I open the door cautiously, looking around the huge entryway. A few people shuffle through the area for whatever reason, but I think they may be setting up for something. I walk toward a set of doors, but someone stops me as I reach for the handle. 

“Sorry, sir. Show doesn’t open for another three hours,” a man tells me sternly, and I gaze up at him in fear. God, this is so embarrassing. 

I open my mouth to say something, but I feel a hand on my shoulder, then a familiar voice. “It’s okay, he’s got a pass,” Michael lies, and I look to the side to see him smiling at me. I love him so much. The employee gives Michael a suspicious look, then looks to me, and then shrugs. He walks away to do whatever theatre employees do three hours before a show starts. 

“Jeremy!” Michael cries breathlessly, turning and scooping me up in an embrace. I quickly scramble to hold him, my hands grabbing at the fabric of the back of his shirt and pulling him closer. I’m stressed and confused, but being with Michael makes me forget about all of that. I just wish my dad would explain what the fuck is going on. “Michael,” I murmur into his shoulder, kissing his neck. It’s so cheesy, especially since we’ve been dating for no time at all. Plus, we’ve only known each other a month. 

I don’t know how relationships in the real world work, but this probably isn’t it.

“You worried me sick, dumbass,” Michael “scolds” me, though I know he’s just messing around. He pulls back and moves his hand to my hair, threading his fingers through the locks. I sigh contently and sport a soft smile, gazing into his eyes. They’re so, so brown. “We have a lot to catch up on, then,” I reply, remembering that I’ll probably need to explain everything that’s happened in the past... two days. Fuck, it’s literally been two days. 

Michael hums to himself and kisses me, softly and then with a sense of urgency. It reminds me of the time we kissed in his kitchen, but things were different back then. He pulls back and takes his bottom lip between his teeth, looking around the room thoughtfully. 

“I think we should take this to the bathroom or something,” he suggests with a grin, and I look down at my suitcase and shrug. I really don’t have anywhere to put it. Michael looks down at my suitcase and raises his eyebrow. “Nevermind, we’ll just take it to my car.” 

Wait, he was allowed to bring his car? 

Michael grabs my hand in his own, then grabs my suitcase and wheels us both out of the building. I’m not really paying attention to anything else but him, gazing up at his face in the most cliché fashion imaginable. “I love you,” I mutter, more to myself than to Michael, but I see the corner of his mouth quirk. He’s so cute. 

He pops his trunk open, hauling my suitcase inside before closing it and looking down at me. “Ever made out in the back of someone’s car before?” Michael asks teasingly, his eyes heavily-lidded. I feel a lump form in my throat, shaking my head. 

Michael giggles and takes out his phone to check the time. “I have thirty minutes until break ends,” he notes, then puts his phone back and takes my hand, leading me to the back door of his car. Michael opens the door and pushes me inside, which I’m surprised by and fall down onto the seat like a fucking idiot. Michael must really like me if he’s willing to date such a klutz. I hear the door slam shut, but don’t see it because I’m busy trying to sit up.

However, my efforts are a waste, because when Michael crawls onto the back seat, he pushes me back into the leather, pinning my arms above my head and meeting my lips with his own. I moan quietly in surprise, giving Michael time to adjust. I have no clue how we both fit back here, but we do, and Michael puts one knee between my leg, threatening to brush against my crotch, and the other on the other side of my leg, against the back of the seat. 

I let Michael take control, since clearly he has more experience and a better idea of what’s going on. Plus, I’ve never considered myself to be all that dominant. 

Michael lets go of my wrists, never breaking our kiss, and brings a hand down to my cheek, his hand cold against the hot skin. He runs his tongue along my bottom lip, and I awkwardly part my lips because hey, maybe he’s, like, asking for entrance or something. That’s usually how porn goes, right? No, actually, porn doesn’t really have kissing. I’m totally unprepared. 

I guess what I did was the right thing to do, though, because Michael moves so that his tongue slips into my mouth. I feel like I’m going to choke, but I follow my instincts and close my lips around his tongue, sucking lightly. Is this how you do it? Michael moans softly, causing my mouth to vibrate, and moves his hand to my hair, tugging it lightly. God, I feel so desperate. At some point, I must’ve moved my hands to Michael’s lower back. My thumbs are looped through two belt loops on his pants, not pulling or anything. Just resting. 

Michael pulls back for air, and I follow him a bit desperately, embarrassed already. He chuckles, eyes sparkling as he moves his hands to my shirt. “Sh-Shit, Jere,” he breathes hard, “You’re good at this. Sure you’ve never kissed a boy?” I giggle and shake my head, eyes wandering to Michael’s hands, which are shaking slightly. He follows my gaze and hollows his cheeks momentarily, then looks back up at me. “Mind if I...?” 

I’m not to sure what that means, but God, Michael is allowed to do _anything_ he wants to me. I nod quickly at whatever he’s asking, and he sits back against my thigh and pulls my shirt over my head. Oh my God, are we having sex? 

My shirt falls to the ground, and Michael returns to my lips, kissing me just as before, just with more neediness. I moan against his mouth, just to test the waters, his kisses getting more determined and sure. He moves from my mouth to my neck, then to my chest. I feel him sucking warm, wet spots into my torso, which sounds weird but is one of the hottest feelings I’ve ever experienced. My chest is flushed, hotter than the inside of the car, and I let my hands wander to the back of Michael’s head, pulling him down towards me. 

Fuck, do I have a boner? 

With a shift of his leg, Michael brushes against my hard-on, and my breath hitches in my throat. Pausing, Michael kisses a spot he sucked into my skin and leans back, gazing down at my crotch. Jesus, this is so awkward. I scramble to sit up, apologetic. “Ah, I’m sorry, I just...” I stammer, grabbing my shirt. “I just haven’t made out with someone like this b-before, and–“ 

Michael’s eyes darken, and the shift in expression in his face makes me stop everything I’m doing. I swallow hard and stare up at him. I feel like I should be scared, but I’m wildly turned on. One would think that my awkwardness had killed my mood, but it’s only making my situation worse. With a shaky breath, Michael smirks mischievously, hazily meeting my eyes. “Do... Do you want me to help you with your problem?” 

The only thing going through my mind is something along the lines of “ _oh my God, oh my God, oh my God_ ,” but I manage to choke out a weak, hungry “yeah” instead. 

***

Nodding, Michael helps me sit back against the side door of the car, which is so uncomfortable, but I can’t focus on it; my mind is all over the place. Prying my legs apart with his hand, Michael leans up to kiss me, planting smaller, harder kisses along my jawline while unbuttoning my pants. At some point, I drop my shirt back to the floor. 

My legs tremble as Michael tries to unzip my pants, pulling them down a bit so that he can reach into my boxers. I stare at Michael in awe, in anticipation, mostly, as he looks up at me with a soft smile. “God, so hot like this,” Michael murmurs, then goes down on me.

Masturbating or watching these kinds of things on a dim screen at three in the morning could _never_ amount to the actual feeling I’m experiencing. Michael’s warm mouth works at my head, sucking slightly as he comes back up to lick my tip. I’m a moaning, panting mess, and he literally just started. One of my hands grips the side of the seat, and my other one moves to Michael’s hair, fingers carding through the curly locks as he takes me into his mouth. I’m sweating profusely as I watch him through lidded eyes. The way he bobs his head up and down in such a steady rhythm causes me to swallow hard. 

Fuck, I’m really close. 

Before I can finish, Michael comes back up and grins at me, hand at the base of my dick. “You should be more verbal,” he suggests, voice hoarse. “You’re making the prettiest noises for me.”

I open my mouth to say something, but Michael’s already back on my member. With a shaky and unsure voice, I mutter, “M-Michael,” trying to figure out something – anything – to say. I remember every porn video I’ve ever watched, trying to swat away those furry ones that I accidentally watched all the way through. Nothing could’ve prepared me for this. I feel myself getting closer, heart thumping loudly against my chest. Michael hums around me, making me cry out and push his head further down my dick. God, I’m such a mess. 

“S-So pretty,” I choke out, hips bucking. “You’re so-o good at this. So good to me-e, Michael. Such pr-pretty, soft lips and such a good mouth–“ And with that and a shrill, ear-piercing moan, I cum, not even asking Michael if it’s okay to just nut in his mouth. 

However, Michael swallows, gazing up at me and smiling around my cock. God, he’s so fucking hot. What did I do to deserve him? 

Breathing hard and still shaking, I finish riding out my orgasm, hand falling from Michael’s hair to the nape of his neck, the neck of his shirt between my fingers and thumb. “That was...” I try, swallowing and taking a breath. “That was so good.” Michael chuckles as he pulls my boxers back over my dick, zipping up my pants and buttoning them again. “Good to hear that I have such ‘pretty soft lips and such a good mouth,’ baby,” he teases lightly, moving to kiss me. 

***

I quickly push him back, remembering that I just came in his mouth. “I... You have my nut in your mouth. That doesn’t sound too appealing,” I explain nervously, but Michael shakes his head. “It’s fine, just shut up and kiss me so I can wind down from my dick-sucking high,” he begs, and I reluctantly let him kiss me. 

I may not know why my dad let me come up here, but I’m sure if he new about the things I just did in the back of this shitty car, he’d have me back in his office in a heartbeat. 

———

With Michael’s assistance, I was able to get into the show, but I have to stay back behind the stage, apparently. Luckily, there’s a small opening to the stage just behind the curtain, so I can look through and get a clear view of Michael. 

Michael says that the show is going to take forever, just because it’s jazz and they have, like, seven or eight songs to play that average around ten minutes. That sounds exhausting, but I’m just excited to see Michael play again. His skill is intoxicating, and I just melt into the notes as soon as he hits the keys. From the side of the stage, I watch as Michael flips through his sheet music, probably making last-minute adjustments. He’s using a pen to scratch things out and make his own additions to one of the pieces, which I can’t help but smile at. He’s so talented. 

The seats in the auditorium are glimmering against the dim, yellow lights, filled with people from all over Pennsylvania (and probably out of the state, too). The show must be starting soon, because Michael drops his pen and fixes his music as the conductor appears behind him, pointing at his music and saying something that I can’t hear. Michael looks at him with a soft smile and gestures to the papers as well, and the conductor, satisfied, pats Michael’s shoulder before walking off. I sigh happily as the conductor takes his spot at the from of the ensemble, motioning to some players with trumpets or whatever they are. I really don’t know anything about music. 

The trumpets start humming, along with what I think may be a saxophone and a trombone or something. A steadying buzz from the drum-set that’s wedged into the orchestra box fills my ears, and then I hear Michael play a soft chord on the piano. Is this their way of saying that the show is about to start? 

As the music gets louder and more intense, I feel the ground vibrate beneath me. I wish I could look at the other players, but I just can’t take my eyes off of _Michael_. 

Michael, my fucking boyfriend. How am I so lucky? I didn’t do anything to deserve such a wonderful guy, and it makes me feel bad to think that he deserves someone better than me. We’re happy. The music reaches a single note across every instrument, the cymbal on the drums hissing until all of the music is stopped at once, motioned by a quick grasp at the air by the conductor. That wasn’t even a song. 

The lights are off except for the ones directly above the ensemble, or at least lights from the back of the auditorium that are shining on the musicians. 

I watch as a collective breath is drawn from the group, and then students start blowing on their trumpets. The drum starts pittering. A saxophone bellows rhythmically, and then Michael works in the piano. As the song goes on, I can’t help but wish that Michael wasn’t part of the group. He’s barely even playing, and when he does, it’s probably music that wasn’t even in his original score, but rather things that he worked in for himself. I don’t even like jazz that much. 

The saxophone gets too many solos, and I wish that Michael would play louder. The music sounds nice together, but I decide that maybe I just like listening to Michael play. 

It’s going to be a long night, and I can already feel my legs aching. In the meantime, all I can do is watch Michael in amazement, just because he’s so gifted and I’m so proud of him and everything he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song mentioned before the chapter ends is supposed to be “count bubba” by gordon goodwin’s big phat band 
> 
> i don’t like jazz all that much ahh :))??


	29. July 2 - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanna die i wrote half the chapter and then ao3 closed on me :,)  
> ++ some more sexy times but also soft times gotta establish that strong homo relationship,, duality of man (***)

We don’t get back to the hotel room until half past twelve in the morning, and I’m absolutely exhausted. I should probably get up to brush my teeth, but my legs are killing me and my eyes are struggling to stay open. 

The after party for the ensemble’s opening night was way too wild to be made up of band geeks, so I guess that that stereotype was completely shattered for me. Michael introduced me to whoever was in charge of the organization and safety of the group, calmly explaining my situation and asking if I could stay in the room with him. There may have been a few little white lies here and there, but the directors were over the moon about such a “die-hard jazz fan” coming to see their performances. That “die-hard jazz fan” was me, apparently. 

Michael’s old roommate was willing to move to another room, even though Michael said that he could stay since there were two beds and he and I would just share one. The boy had quickly shaken his head with a smile, saying that he could just move to the room across the hall with one of the trombone players. Michael whispered something about “trom-boning” to me as soon as the kid left, and then I punched him in the arm. Stupid Michael.

I’m brought back to reality as I hear Michael’s humming over the steady pattering of the shower, steam seeping out of the cracked door. I’m definitely going to fall asleep if he keeps it up, so I need to get up and brush my teeth. With an irritated grunt, I roll off of the bed and shuffle into the bathroom, careful not to scare or surprise Michael. His humming has turned into soft singing, filling the small bathroom and ringing in my ears. He’s not an awful singer, I guess. I can’t say that I know what song he’s singing, though. 

As soon as we had gotten back to the room, I had taken out my toothbrush and put in the bathroom. However, Michael complained that his back hurt and that he smelled bad, so I let him take a shower first. 

I put some toothpaste onto my toothbrush and lean against the counter, letting the hot fog from the shower and Michael’s voice lull me into haziness. 

“– _And happiness is what you need so bad_  
Jeremy _, the answer lies with you.”_

I feel myself melt against the counter. 

 _“Catch the wind, see us spin_  
_Sail away, leave today_  
_Way up high in the sky, hey, whoa,  
But the wind won't blow_.”

Am I even brushing my teeth anymore?

 _“You really shouldn't go_  
_Only goes to show_  
_That you will be mine  
By takin' our time–_ “

Michael’s singing ends abruptly, and I feel myself knocked out of my trance. I’m still not thinking straight. He hear the metallic scrape of the rings of the shower curtain against the rod holding it up as Michael peeps around the fabric, smiling softly at me. “Sorry, I’m a shower-singer,” he chuckles, gazing at me. This must be the first time I’ve seen him without his glasses, and God, he’s so gorgeous. I’m standing here like a complete idiot, mouth agape and toothpaste drool leaking from a corner of my mouth. 

“Like what you see?” Michael teases, letting the curtain fall back a little. Involuntarily, my gaze dips to his chest, which is warm and gleaming. I choke. 

He laughs again and hesitates, like he’s thinking. “Do... Do you need a shower?” Michael asks cautiously, and I regain enough composure to spit into the sink. I turn back around and nod. “Y-Yeah, I was gonna wait until you were done...” I lie, because I wasn’t going to take a shower at all. Michael’s eyes darken slightly, just like they did in his car. I feel my knees buckle under me. 

“Save water, Jere. The environment’s dying. More water, more gay frogs,” Michael jokes, and I wish I could understand what he was talking about. Is he asking me to take a shower with him? 

Doesn't matter, I’m already putting my toothbrush on the counter and taking off my clothes, waiting for Michael to disappear behind the curtain before taking off my boxers. Like he didn’t just blow me in his car a few hours ago. I step into the shower carefully, steadying myself on the handicap rail. Michael has enough decency not to stare blatantly at me, but I can’t say the same for myself. He’s turned around, so all I can do is trace his spin with my gaze, admiring the curvature and the way he stretches when he rinses out his hair. 

I don’t remember his ice cream uniform being this revealing ever.

Michael turns his head around slightly, smirking. “Don’t get so flustered. You’re gonna see my dick at some point anyways,” he cooes, but I’m not even looking down there. I stutter slightly, rocking back on my heels. “I was, uh, looking at your back,” I peep, and he laughs. “Keep... Keep singing.” 

I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, but the steam is choking me up and putting these awful ideas in my head. Michael looks at me quizzically, but continues whatever song he was singing earlier, turning back around to grab a washcloth and some soap. With shaky arms, I bring my hands to Michael’s shoulders, or rather the area of his back just under them. His singing falters slightly as I rub small circles into them, just trying to help him relax. Or maybe I’m trying to help myself relax. 

I’m not ready for shower sex or anything like that, but I can at least try and show Michael that I’m good with my hands too, right? 

“ _So if you wake up with the sunrise  
And all your dreams are still as new..._ ”

***

My hands wander down Michael’s back, which is slick with water. Before I know it, one of my hands is reaching around him. 

“ _And happiness is what you need so bad_  
Jeremy _, the answer lies with you, yeah–_ “ 

God, what the fuck am I doing? This is the opposite of a shower. My grip moves to Michael’s member, shaking as it rests at its base. 

“J-Jeremy?” Michael asks, his voice breaking the song and shattering my confidence. However, I have to finish what I started, even if I fuck it up. Swallowing hard, I take a breath. “Don’t st-stop singing.” 

My hand works in steady strokes. I’m pretty good at masturbating if nothing else, so at least I know how to work up a rhythm. I think I can hear Michael moan, but he moves his hands against the shower wall and leans against them. One of my hands rests on his shoulder, rubbing the tense muscle and trembling just as badly as the one on his dick, which I still haven’t seen, by the way. 

“C- _Catch the wind, see us spin..._ ” 

I quicken my pace, my breathing picking up. God, this is actually kind of hot. 

“ _Sa-ail away, leave today._ ” 

Michael’s definitely moaning, not able to sing anymore without interrupting it with the deep sounds. Jesus, they’re so hot and they’re going straight to my dick. Why are we moving so fast with our relationship? 

“Jeremy, I... _God_ , please,” he chokes, hand slipping slightly. My breath hitches in my throat. “P-Please what?” I reply breathlessly, wondering if that was an appropriate comment to make in this situation. I don’t know what Michael’s into. 

“Oh my God, Jere,” Michael manages, and I feel him shudder as he finishes, probably against the wall. I can’t see, but I wish I could. I bite my lip as sweet sounds slip out of Michael’s mouth, sounds that are way better than his singing. A smiling mess, Michael turns around, panting and bringing his hands to my cheeks and cupping my face. I can only look up at his features, which are breathtakingly gorgeous. God, I love him. How did I ever deny my feelings for him? 

***

“ _Way up high, in the sky_ ,” Michael hums, kissing my forehead. This is remarkably domestic after what I just did. “ _Hey, woah._ ” I let myself bask in Michael’s gaze, heart pounding in my ears. I stand on my toes to kiss Michael, lips wet and slippery, but I don’t care. The water is so fucking hot, but Michael’s hotter. “What song are you singing?” I ask lowly as Michael plants kisses along my neck. I’m growing tired again. 

He doesn’t answer. 

He hums the next few lines, which I can barely hear above the sound of the water. I rest my head against his shoulder, letting him nip at my neck. 

“... _Only goes to show_  
_That you will be mine  
By takin' our time, oh_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song michael’s singing is “what is and what should never be,” by led zeppelin, bc he’s a soft boye and loves jere


	30. July 2 - Part 2

Explaining everything that’s happened to Michael is a bit difficult to do without tearing up. I guess I haven’t been thinking too much about my disaster of a job interview, but as I tell him about the past few days in the car on the way to breakfast, I find my face warm and my eyes wet. 

“Yeah, well, the interview was absolutely a-awful,” I shudder, remembering the way Mr. Johnson made excuses so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the socially inept teen sitting across from him. Who knows, maybe he wasn’t lying. Michael looks at me for a split second, then back at the road, chewing his bottom lip in concentration. “Hey, it’s fine. He’ll find someone else. On the bright side, now you have no excuse to not spend the entire summer with me,” he tries to lighten the mood, but I sink into my seat a bit instead. I feel a bit pointless, really. Now that everything’s coming back to me, I can’t help but be stuck in a negative mindset. 

One of the many joys of being me.

Michael hums along to one of the songs buzzing quietly on the radio as he waits for me to say something else. “Uh, my dad got mad,” I rush, “He banned me from coming to see you and your shows.” Michael furrows his brow and looks incredulously at the road ahead, and I think I can see his grip on the steering wheel tighten. 

“Banned you? What is he, homophobic?” he asks, slightly offended. I shake my head and move my hand to the center console, tapping my fingers lightly. ”No, no,” I reply quickly, sighing inwardly. “I guess I haven’t been... completely honest with him, I don’t know. He’s never cared about where I was or what I was doing. Got mad that he did. He yelled at me, banned me from seeing you because he grounded me, and then took me to work the next morning. He went to go, like, show a house or something and drove home without saying a word. Then he dropped me off and said to come to your show. It was so weird and he still hasn’t called me back or replied to my messages, but his _Facebook_ status said active like two hours ago so I know he was on his phone.” 

Michael snorts and points to a _Denny’s_ up ahead, sparkling against the morning sun and looking like a bomb shelter. “ _Denny’s_ sound okay?” I nod. “But that’s ridiculous,” he continued, addressing my explanation. “I mean, who still uses _Facebook_?” 

I chuckle lightly and feel myself relax a bit, though I didn’t realize I was so tense beforehand. This is why I love Michael; he alleviates my anxiety with such ease. He’s so kind and funny and I just don’t deserve him. However, I wish for once that my dad would just call and ask how l’m doing. “Oh, hey,” I suddenly remember as Michael pulls into a parking space. “You told me you would be gone for less than a week. Were you lying so that I wouldn’t worry as much?” 

Just from hearing what the other kids in the jazz ensemble were saying, I could tell that Michael was kind of a celebrity in the world of teenage pianists. He’s been to a lot of competitions, always placing in the top four, and apparently he’s had a lot of offers from different companies and orchestras and things like that. There’s no way that Michael would’ve been gone for just a “few days,” like he had told me before he left when I was crying on the porch. 

Michael puts the car in park and hesitates, then moves his hand to mine, which is still tapping on the center console. “Uh, not entirely,” he starts slowly, uncertainly. Okay, so he _was_ lying. “I knew that I’d, well, be gone for a while, but I planned on coming down to Greensburg every chance I got. I wasn’t lying, just withholding information. Didn’t want you to get upset.” Part of me is a bit cross at what Michael’s saying, especially because it says a lot about the way he views my emotional stability. However, he’s not exactly wrong, because I’m a huge fucking baby, after all. 

I nod slowly and let Michael kiss my cheek before getting out of the car. With a steadying breath, I climb out of the car and walk around to Michael’s side, and he snakes a hand around my waist, hooking his thumb around one of the waistbands on my shorts. 

“I’m sorry,” I mumble as we approach the sidewalk, arms crossed. “I just, you know, we just started dating and it’s all so new and I don’t wanna rush things... Plus, you’ll get tired of me, and I don’t want that to be just yet. Sorry I’m so clingy and concerned all the time.” Michael hushes me and plants a soft kiss into my hair, then opens the door for me. “You’re sorry? No need to be. Don’t apologize. We’ll figure out everything with your dad, and we’re going to make the most of our summer, even if that means not taking some piano offers or whatever.”

I feel overwhelmingly guilty.

I’d never want to limit Michael or be a burden, but I also know that he probably would get stretched out and too busy to spend time with me if he accepted every offer that came his way. Is it okay that I don’t want him to stay away all summer? Probably not, but I stop caring. 

As Michael and I wait for our table, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. Thinking that it’s Christine, I pull it out without looking at the Caller ID, answering it and holding it up to my ear. “What’s shaking?” I ask as an aside, and Michael looks at me in confusion. He notices my phone and nods, then grabs my hand as we follow the server to our booth. 

“Jeremy, hi.” 

Wait, this isn’t Christine. The voice is way too low and gruff. “Dad?” I squeak, sliding into my seat. Michael raises his eyebrows and leans forward in his seat slightly, listening to my conversation as best as he can. 

“I’m really sorry about, uh, you know,” my dad grumbles, and I guess that that’s an okay apology. What he’s sorry for, I’m not too sure, but he rarely says sorry for any wrongdoing he commits, so I’m satisfied. “Yeah,” I say, voice staccato.

”It’s just... Okay, full break-down for my boy,” he continues, taking a quick breath. What day is it? Shouldn’t he be at work? “You weren’t telling me where you were at, and I’ve been reading a lot of articles about the awful things kids have gotten into recently. Like, really bad shit, Skipper. You won’t believe... Okay, anyways, I got really nervous. I thought that maybe you had been lying to my about this Michael kid. I’ve never met him, and I know that teenage boys need their... _privacy_.

”So, uh, basically I freaked out. Plus, you were being incredibly rude. You shouldn’t swear at your dad,” my dad continues, trying to find that balance between stern parenting and a passive attitude. This isn’t making much sense. “Okay?” I ask, shifting my phone to my other ear. 

My dad growls irritably as he searches for the right things to say. This is where I got my lack of verbal confidence from. “Jeremy, look,” he finally says, sighing loudly. “I, well, I just got scared. Before your mom left us, she would, y’know, disappear a lot. Wouldn’t tell me where she was off to, things like that. Didn’t want... I didn’t want the same thing to happen with you.” 

Actually, that makes a little bit of sense. 

“Two things,” I interject before his awkward rambling continues. “One, why didn’t you call me earlier? I’ve been worried sick.” 

Michael looks up at the waiter as he comes asking for our drink order, asking for a coffee and a hot chocolate. God, I guess he knows me too well. 

My dad clicks his tongue. “That’s, uh, I don’t know. I thought it’d be more emotional if I waited a bit,” he chuckles, but I don’t find it very funny. “Uh, alright?” I probe, and then shake my head. I don’t need to start another fight. “Okay, secondly. You went from screaming and grounding me to throwing me out onto the driveway and telling me to come see my boyfriend play and giving me permission to spend the summer up in Pittsburgh with someone you don’t know. What the fuck happened in that house you showed?”

Crap, no swearing.

“I mean, what the _heck_ happened?”

Michael sets one of his feet on top of my own, but little does he know that I play footsies to win. I kick back with unintentional force, and he winces and starts laughing. Dork. 

“Yeah,” Dad groans, hissing slightly. “Well, the family I was showing was just so... perfectly happy. Like, Jere, it made me sick, and you know I love _Full House_. But it was too sweet: the perfect trophy wife, the hardworking dad, the sport-obsessed little boy, the girly little daughter. I was traumatized. I just want us to be a happy family, but if that’s what that means, then I’d rather have problems and let you go enjoy your life before adulthood hits you and you have to watch gross families like that try to buy a house.” 

I guess that this all makes sense, but I think that I’m more relieved than anything. I just wanted closure, and if an awkward conversation with half-apologies is closure, then I’m satisfied. “Cool, okay. Sorry,” I mutter as the server comes back with two white mugs, and I gaze longingly at my hot chocolate. I need to get off the phone so that I can drink it. 

“Well, you’re probably busy. Enjoy your stay. Please just come down to Greensburg every once in a while? With Michael. I need to meet my son’s boyfriend. My son who said he was straight. My son who–“

”Okay Dad, bye,” I interrupt loudly, then hang up. Michael gives me a questioning look, but then shifts his gaze up to the server and asks for a few more seconds. The waiter politely nods and walks away, leaving me to explain the phone call with my dad. “So?” Michael prompts, crossing his arms and leaning forward. “What’s the sitch?” 

I snort and reach for my hot chocolate, letting the warm cup heat up my hands. It’s pretty cold in here. 

“Just got worried, I guess. Saw a family that was ‘too perfect’ and realized that that’s not what he wanted. Wanted to see me happy, _blah blah blah_ ,” I crudely explain, sipping cautiously from my cup. I definitely have a whipped cream mustache. Michael chuckles and takes the metal can of creamer, pouring it into his coffee, along with lots of sugar. He may as well have just gotten milk. “Well, _are_ you happy?” 

I pause. “What?” 

Michael stirs his “coffee” with a spoon, the metal clinking loudly. “I asked if you’re happy. Y’know, with me, with where you are in life. Are you happy?” 

I didn’t sign up for a therapy session, but Michael always insists on making things personal, doesn’t he? He warms my heart. I feel my chest tighten, and I smile softly. “So happy, babe.” Where’d that come from? _Babe?_ Oh my God. Michael shrugs with a smirk and then tells me that he’s getting French toast with hashbrowns if I want some. I do. I agree to get a plate of scrambled eggs and some biscuits so that we can share food. He says it’s to “save money,” but I know that he just wants to share food with me. 

Michael’s a hopeless romantic. I’m so lucky. 

“So, do you guys play the same songs tonight or what?” I change the subject after we order, sipping from my mug again. “I’m still confused.” 

Michael hums softly, lips still on his cup. He sets down his coffee and swallows. “Yeah, so we play the same, like, eight songs every night. We’re gonna go out to dinner afterwards, then to the hotel room or wherever because I have a car and my mom signed a permission slip. We have, like, two more shows after tonight, then you and I are going back to Greensburg for a night or two. After that, we go up to Philadelphia and I play for some people, promote their pianos, and see where the summer takes me – us – from there. If you ever get bored, I’ll drive you home...”

I quickly shake my head and grin. I love how he keeps saying “us” and “we.” 

“Okay, sounds good,” I reply, head buzzing. “As long as you come to dinner one night. My dad wants to meet you.” Michael nods and sticks his tongue out at me. “Of course, duh. Oh, hope you don’t mind, I already told my parents what color scheme I’m using for our wedding,” he teases. Wedding? It warms my heart to hear how serious he is about this relationship, even if it was a joke. 

“Better be navy and gold, nerd. I’ll be needing a new tie, because pink doesn’t go too well with those colors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i was ranting on ig about this but the fandom is getting so!! toxic!! 
> 
> a lot of rumors are spreading, but we should just focus on the fact that THEY REVIVED THE SHOW AND DID AN AMAZING JOB!


	31. July 4

Michael’s last show has the entire ensemble an emotional mess. Apparently they’ve all become “close friends,” but Michael tells me that they’ll probably forget about each other within a week. I can relate to that, especially since at the theatre camp Christine and I went to, the “friends” she made stopped talking to her within three days of the camp ending. I think she may still have one friend that keeps up, but that’s it. 

At the closing ceremony, Michael and I sit at a table with four other kids and one director. It’s really late, and admittedly, I just want to go back to the hotel room. I’m glad that everyone's getting recognized or whatever, but I’m just so exhausted. Standing for, like, four days straight has a negative effect on a person. I feel Michael’s foot shaking against my leg, and I look over to see him tapping it at an incredibly rapid pace. He’s scaring me a bit, to be honest. Is he okay? It’s just a closing ceremony. 

“You okay?” I ask, shoveling casserole or whatever mass of cheesy food is piling on top of my plate. The food has been really good tonight, and I’m sure that the chocolate cake I got won’t let me down. 

Michael looks up at me, face slightly sweaty. He smiles and stabs absently at his own plate. “Fine,” he replies in a weak voice, then shifts his gaze back to his plate. Michael’s been acting really weird ever since lunch, when he took a call from his dad and stepped away from me so that I wouldn’t hear the conversation. I probably should’ve been offended, but Michael deserves as much privacy as I can offer him, which really isn’t a lot, but I try. 

I set down my fork and chew my casserole sadly. “Hey, really, what’s wrong?” I persist, placing a hand on his leg. Michael jumps a bit and his eyes widen as he looks at me. “I... We’ll talk about it later.” 

I don’t like that answer very much, but I guess it’ll have to do, because before I can say anything, the director of the ensemble is up on the stage in front of the room talking. I guess that that’s that then. 

———

“Okay, it’s later now,” I whine, my hand holding onto Michael’s tightly as we drive back to the hotel for some party the drum player’s throwing. I watch him take his bottom lip between his teeth, sighing as we roll to a stop at a stop sign just outside the hotel. “Later? Like, _later_ ,” he begs, and I shake my head. I’m not going to put up with his anxiety about whatever his secret phone call was about much longer. 

He sinks back in his seat, hand shaking slightly as the car trembles mechanically. “My dad,” is all he says, rolling his head over to look at me. Is he about to cry? 

I nod encouragingly, putting my other hand over his. “What about him?” 

Silence. 

“ _Michael_ ,” I urge, concern growing. God, what had his dad said to tear Michael apart so much? Michael looks up at the rear view mirror, making sure no one’s waiting for him to move forward. With a steadying sigh, he looks back at me and smiles softly, eyes fluttering shut. 

“My dad’s... never been too great with my sexuality. He tries, but I know it’s hard for him. He makes some really homophobic comments sometimes, and he doesn’t like that I’m gay,” Michael explains hesitantly, like this is all building up to some huge reveal. “Okay, and?”

Silence again.  

Michael swallows hard and opens his eyes. “He, uh, basically said he doesn’t want you in our house.” 

My heart stops beating. I swear the air is the ocean and I suddenly can’t breathe. Michael’s dad is homophobic? He couldn’t have told me that earlier? He doesn’t want me in their _house_? “I’m s-sorry, what?” I stammer, throat closing up. Michael falters, slumping over a bit. 

“Shit, Jere,” he sniffles, holding my hand tightly. “You’re gonna make me cry.” 

I try not to cry myself. Michael’s dad has never even _met_ me. How could he already hate me? Why do I even need his approval? Why do I care so much? “Michael, it’s... It’s okay, I–“ 

“No, it’s not,” Michael interjects, pushing his glasses up and wiping his nose with the back of his other hand. I look at him sadly as he lets his hand fall back into his lap, shaking his head at the ceiling of the car. “God. I’m really sorry. It’s just... My parents are never happy with what I do. My mom’s super supportive of my sexuality and tries her best to support my piano and schooling, but my dad’s just doesn’t know me all that well.”

My mind travels back to our conversation at _Denny’s_. “What about the wedding? Color scheme?” I ask tearfully. I don’t need Michael’s dad’s blessing, so he can suck my– 

“I was trying to lighten the mood. I told my mom, who told my dad, who apparently freaked out, according to my mom. Then he called me. Sorry,” Michael mutters, sniffling quietly. Maybe I just haven’t been around too many homophobic people, because hearing about Michael’s dad not supporting his sexuality is a brand new concept to me. All of my friends have literally shoved my sexuality in my face, telling me that I wasn’t straight and that they were onto me.

Homophobia? Never heard of it.  

“Yeah, well, no need to apologize,” I reply, trying not to make the situation worse by crying too. “It’s not your fault. We... We can still make this work, y’know? You can come to my house. It’s summer, so, like, I can come over when your dad’s not home.” 

Michael shrugs and turns his attention back to the stop sign, pulling forward into the parking lot. “I guess, but, like, I wish he didn’t hate you. He doesn’t know you. It’s not fair. He doesn’t like anything I do, Jere. I’m giving up at this point. I can’t deal with him. He drags me down,” Michael rants, his sadness morphing into anger. He’s kind of scaring me a bit. I let my thumb rest in between the valley of Michael’s middle finger and ring finger.

“It’s okay, Micah,” I assure him, my voice surprisingly smooth and soothing. I even calm myself down a bit. “I know things will turn out fine. It’s not fair, but, like, we have each other. We should go home together tomorrow to my house. We can make food and play video games and screw around until my dad comes home. Doesn’t that sound good?” 

Michael chuckles breathily and pulls into a parking spot. “Yeah, dork. How about less ‘making food’ and ‘playing video games’ and more ‘screwing around’?” he suggests, sniffling to himself. 

I roll my eyes and let go of his hand, moving to get out of the car. “No, I like video games more than sucking dick,” I tease, which probably won’t be true after the first time I give Michael a blowjob. Michael hums and clucks at me.

“I can change that.”

———

I’ve only been to one party in my high school career, because I don’t count birthday parties as actual parties. 

Attending the ensemble’s party reminds me of why. 

These kids are absolutely nuts. It’s almost midnight and they’re still bouncing off the walls. We’re in a hotel. I’m honestly so embarrassed, and I’d leave if it weren’t for Michael’s drunken rambles about me. Oh, did I mention that the saxophone player somehow managed to sneak fucking alcohol into the party? I think someone may be smoking weed in the bathroom. 

“Jere, baby,” Michael slurs, leaning against me. He’s barely downed a bottle of beer and he’s already drunk off his ass. I think that part of it is exaggerated, but Michael is probably a fucking lightweight. One beer? My niece could handle her beer better than Michael. 

Michael shoves his nose into my hair and takes a huge whiff, shuddering and draping his arms around my shoulders. “Mph, Jer’my. Listen, you look... God, you look so hot. But, like,” he mumbles, kissing my ear with wet lips. Oh my God, he’s such a stereotypical drunk teenager. This is why I don’t go to parties. “But!” he moans loudly, leaning against me. I almost fall over. “But! Okay! I fuggin’ _love_ you, but you gotta tell me like what you’re into.” 

God, he’s a flirty drunk. I sigh and hold him up by his elbows, pulling one of his arms around my waist. I don’t remember signing up for this when I became Michael’s boyfriend. I drag Michael to the door of the room, struggling through the thick crowd of people who definitely weren’t in the repertoire. 

“ _Jere_ ,” Michael urges, pouting as I pull open the door and wriggle out through the small space.  

“Michael, you’re drunk,” I say simply, trying to keep my voice down as best I can. Michael’s hands are dangerously close to my crotch, and I don’t appreciate the way his thumb is slipping into the waistband of my dress pants. “And you’re cute. And I’m gay. What’re you into?” he asks again, and I shake the question off again. 

Soon. 

I struggle to take our room key out of my pocket, especially because Michael has completely forgotten to stand and how basic body movements work. “I know you can hear me,” he whines, voice too loud. I quickly throw a hand over his mouth, narrowing my eyes at him and shoving the key into the card slot, breathing again when the green light flickers and the door beeps.

”Oh, _dominant_ ,” Michael grumbles as soon as we get back into the room. He leans against a wall, slipping slightly. I shake my head and laugh. He won’t remember any of this tomorrow, will he? 

“Try again.” 

Michael swallows hard as I hold the door so that it doesn’t slam shut. I turn back around and pull him up to his feet, walking him to the bed. “So, n’you’re not dominant? Are you a... butt?” 

“What?” 

“Bottom,” he laughs at his stupid joke, falling onto the bed. “Change me.” 

I groan to myself and plant a soft kiss on Michael’s cheekbone, patting his arm before grabbing some of his pajamas from the drawers he shoved them into when he first got here. Jesus, he’s such an unorganized mess. I pull out some boxers and then drop the pile onto Michael, who moans loudly and kicks his feet in protest. “I said to dress me, Jeremy! I’m... ‘M too drunk for this!” 

“Michael, you drank one bottle of beer. You’re not drunk,” I reply calmly, pushing his clothes at him again. He shakes his head, and I readjust his crooked glasses. “No, I downed, like, half a bottle of Vodka!” 

“Michael.” 

“Okay, but I _did_ have a lot of sips. Many sippies. Lots of ‘em. Lighten up, Jere, ‘m a lightweight. Get me dressed, ‘can barely stand!” he whines loudly, and I slam my hand over his mouth again. “Too loud,” I hiss, relishing the sudden fear in Michael’s expression. It’s kind of hot, but he’s drunk and I’d never try anything if he wasn’t completely sober. 

Michael gazes at me as I take my hand back. God, I’m a pushover. I help Michael sit back up and pull his blazer off, which he’s still wearing from the show. I undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, kissing his forehead as I do so. 

I really do love this weirdo.

”I should get drunk m-ore often,” he laughs, hiccuping. “Maybe you’d undress me more. Hot.” 

I giggle and roll my eyes. He’s just drunk. “Yeah? Well, like, I don’t like you being drunk much. You say such weird shit.” Michael feigns offense as I pull his undershirt over his head, replacing it with one of his pajama shirts. “Weird? Just love you!” he counters, sticking out his bottom lip. I kiss him softly and snicker, then take a deep breath as I unbutton his pants. This is purely non-sexual. 

“Jere?” Michael asks, voice getting higher as he smiles. I look up as I pull his pants down, careful not to stare or be rude. 

“Hm?” 

“I love you.” 

I look back down so that I can get the pants off of Michael’s legs. “Love you too.” 

“You mean it?” 

Sighing contently, I look back up at Michael. 

“Of course.” 

He grins and leans back into the bed, kicking his pants off. “Hmph, okay.” 

Why does it sound like fireworks are going off outside? Maybe someone’s just shooting their gun. This city is a crazy place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> papa zucchi this fic is so fun i never want it to end :,))  
> okay i’m adding this forever after this chapter was posted i really fucked up the numbering for the chapters okay don’t kill me this is july 4 but my dumb boyos forgot, but they’ll remember later i promise


	32. July 5 - Part 1

“Are you sure that you’re okay to drive, Michael?” I ask Michael cautiously, watching as he irritably rips the zipper shut on his suitcase. He glares up at me, which makes me shrink a bit, but his features soften as soon as he notices my figure. “Sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head. 

Michael pulls his bag off of the bed and lets it hit the ground with a soft _thud_ , shaking the room’s floor slightly. “I’m fine. Got a headache,” he groans, and I roll my eyes, letting go of my bag’s handle so that I can waltz up to Michael and lazily throw my arms around his neck in an embrace, smiling up at him. “My _wittle_ lightweight,” I tease, and Michael pouts, letting go of his bag and letting his arm travel up my back to rest on the small of my back, running his thumb along the hem of my shirt. “I didn’t invite you so that I could get bullied. If I still worked at _Tastyland_ , I’d give you a peach fucking milkshake right now.”

I snort and kiss his jaw softly, then lean back on my heels and smile at him. God, do I love this boy. “Who’s gonna work there, anyways?” 

“You.”

With a nervous chuckle, I shake my head. “No, didn’t nail the interview, remember?” I don’t want to remember that awful lunch. “I hope he can find someone else. He seems nice, and _Tastyland_ is bomb as fuck.” Michael shrugs lightly and drops his hands to his sides, shifting his gaze to his suitcase. “We should get going, huh? Check-out’s soon,” he notes, and I nod my agreement. 

———

“Did you hear, like, _banging_ last night?” I ask absently, studying billboards as we zip past them down the highway. Michael hums quietly, then chuckles. “Banging? Probably just percussion, if you know what I mean,” he jokes, and I punch his arm, to which he winces and laughs louder. 

“Not banging,” I mumble, face steadily growing more red. God, stupid Jeremy. “Like, fireworks? What’s today?” 

Michael changes lanes, zooming past a truck that’s going twenty under the speed limit. “God, retard,” he hisses, then straightens the wheel and continues racing down the road. I’ve never trusted his driving, and this experience is only confirming and fueling my driving anxiety. “Okay, uh, I don’t know. You have a phone for a reason.” 

I roll my eyes and pull out my phone lazily, haphazardly checking the date and time. 

**July 5, 2018 - 1:07 PM**

Huh, okay. July sure came quick. 

Oh my God, _July 5_?

”Michael!” I cry suddenly, gasping and throwing my hand blindly at his arm, gripping it tightly. He swerves jerkily, screaming as he almost hits a car that’s traveling a bit too close to our lane. The car honks loudly, slowing and causing the car behind it to honk. I think I may be yelling and near pissing myself out of pure fear, slamming my eyes shut and screaming until my throat burns. 

Michael regains control of the car, groaning nervously and sighing obnoxiously. “Jeremy Heere, Jesus fucking Christ!” he reprimands me as soon as he catches his breath, and I let myself fall back into my chair and cower, traumatized from the near-death experience we just encountered, courtesy of yours truly. “ _What?_ ” I inhale and exhale deeply at uneven intervals, gripping my chest wildly as I wind down. God, I really hate myself.

That was the scariest thing I’ve literally ever experienced. 

“S-orry,” I choke, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry!” Michael furrows his brow slightly as the driver from the other lane passes him, middle finger displayed furiously in the driver’s window. Great. 

Michael breathes hard again, looking at his GPS, which is really just his phone, opened to _Google Maps_ , held above his air conditioning vent by a plastic phone-holder thing. “Gloria Estefan better be fuckin’ dead, Jere,” he huffs, anger no longer dripping off of his dialect. Good, so he’s _not_  infuriated. I loosen up my grip on the seat, which I was apparently holding onto for dear life, and shake my head slowly. “No, no, sorry,” I murmur, also loosening my hold on Michael’s arm. That probably left a mark, too.

”Uh, it’s July. July 5. We missed the Fourth of July, basically,” I explain, growing mortified. I almost caused a wreck with this realization, and Michael probably doesn’t even care about the Fourth of July or fireworks or anything like that.

However, Michael gasps, and I watch as disappointment and regret flood his face. “Jeremy!” he pouts, stealing a glance at me. “We missed our first holiday as a couple! I love the Fourth of July, oh my God. How did I forget?” I realize that the “banging” I had heard throughout yesterday was a series of fireworks. How could no one have told us? Why didn’t anyone say anything? 

“This isn’t fair,” I sigh, tapping my foot against the floor of the car. “I wanted to watch fireworks and be cheesy and shit with you.” 

“Shit with me?” 

I punch him again. 

Michael looks at his phone again, shifting over a lane so that he can exit. “Me too,” he admits after taking the exit, slowing down slightly as we round a ramp. “I wanted to hold hands and kiss under the colorful fireworks. This is bullshit.” However, his grief is quickly replaced by a huge grin, and he excitedly takes a hand off the wheel to pat my thigh a few times. 

“Wait! Why can’t we still shoot off fireworks? Dude, I bet fireworks are cheap as fuck at _Phantom Fireworks_ right now! Let’s get a few, maybe buy some sparklers, get shit to make s’mores, and then stay the night at your house? I’m the best at coming up with dates, I call dibs on the date-maker title,” he squeals, rambling cutely as I listen intently. Actually, that’s a really great idea. My dad would literally love that. 

“Okay!” I reply eagerly, my smile growing slowly. I take Michael’s hand into my own, remembering his dad with a flutter of my heart. “Wait, don’t your parents miss you?” 

Michael pauses and shrugs, easing the car to a stop at a light. “Probably not. My mom apparently texted me last night asking when I’d be home. I’ll just lie and say that it doesn’t end until tomorrow. That way, I can stay at your house until I have to go home and pack up. You should pack, too. We have a few days before I leave again, I think, but we could always go up to Philly early if you want.” 

I never planned for my summer to be filled with such exciting ventures, especially not surrounding an ex- _Tastyland_ employee’s piano career. Fuck, I thought I was straight for an entire month and a half, arguing with myself and grieving over my sexuality for weeks on end. 

Right now, all I feel is love. All I feel is thankfulness. All I feel is Michael. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heck i didn’t notice how messed up my chapter timeline was i fixed it ahh i wanna die lmao what is this :,))  
> spoiler i just wanna write fluff hahh


	33. July 5 - Part 2

I never knew how complicated buying fireworks was until now. Michael’s having to show identification and trade an arm and a leg for these fucking things. 

“This is the _only_ time I’m letting you use that fake fucking ID, you hear me?” I hiss in an undertone, holding fast to Michael’s arm. Michael chuckles and kisses the side of my head, then takes out his card to show the man working the stand. Not many other people are here, and the vendor says that they only have the shitty firework options left, but Michael and I could care less. We have a bag of sparklers, three boxes of _Pop-Its_ , and a small package of the weakest fireworks the stand sells. 

I’ve never set off my own fireworks before, but I’m pretty sure someone’s going to end up with third degree burns. 

Michael waits for the man to finish examining his card, then hands it back to him and rings up our purchases. The _Pop-Its_ are cheap as fuck, though I’m sure we’re being ripped off because we didn’t vouch to buy a fifty-pack of boxes. Actually, everything is relatively cheap, but the vendor claims that people usually buy larger sets. “You boys should know that it’s not exactly legal to set off fireworks in neighborhoods or on public property without a firework display permit, ‘aight? The sparklers and _Pop-Its_ are fine, but even these small ones...”

I hope that Michael’s listening, because I’m not. The total ends up being around thirty or forty dollars, which Michael pays for because I’m running low on money. All of these taxi rides are adding up fast. 

“Alright, s’mores trip,” Michael declares as he finishes buying the fireworks, shoving the change into the bag with our purchases. He takes the bag in one hand, mine in his other, and we return to the car. “Tell me about that fake ID,” I inquire, still not sure why Michael would even need it. “You don’t illegally buy fireworks this often, do you?” 

Michael has a very late birthday, which is ironic because I do as well. His is just two weeks away, and mine should be a week after that. We both share July birthdays, which is purely coincidental. I wish the age difference was a bit larger, because I feel uncomfortable knowing that Michael, who looks like a grown-ass man, is only a few weeks older than I am. 

He hums quietly as he opens the trunk of his car and drops the bag in, backing me up so it doesn’t hit my head on the way back down. “Not often,” Michael jokes, looking over to me. “Usually for hotels, I guess. I don’t know, actually. Just wanted one and someone from my tutoring group just so happened to be selling.” 

“Travis?” 

“Travis.” 

I chuckle to myself and let Michael open my door for me. “Well, I can’t imagine the ridiculous amount of struggle you went through for a fake ID. For literally no reason,” I jeer, and Michael leans against the car door’s frame. 

“Not for no reason,” he corrects me, though I can sense a bit of hesitation in his voice. “It’s just... I dunno, I have lots of free time, watch lots of cheesy high school movies. Made me feel like I was a real teenager, having a fake ID. You don’t have one, and I doubt that you know anyone who does, but I guess that having it just makes me feel like I’m, y’know, normal.”

Damnit, Michael. 

“Now I feel bad!” I pout, crossing my arms and letting my chest pang with guilt. “I... You... Michael, you _are_ normal. Just because you’ve never gone to public school before doesn’t mean that you’re not. I wish your parents would let you, but, like, you’re not an _alien_.” Michael grins lazily at me, kissing my forehead. “Actually, I _am_ an alien, thanks,” he responds, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out. “Take - me - to - your - leader.” 

I roll my eyes and shove him away as he tries to shower my face with kisses, feigning disgust. “Get off of me, nerd,” I laugh, fingers gracing Michael’s hairline. “Let’s get stuff for s’mores, hurry up!” 

Michael giggles as he breaks my grip on his forehead, planting small kisses along my cheekbones and nose. 

Will our puppy-love stage ever end?

———

Michael stands on the porch nervously, fireworks in one arm and groceries in the other. I take my thumb to his face to straighten out one of his eyebrows, which has hairs sticking in every direction. 

“And if he doesn’t like me?” Michael whimpers, sticking out his bottom lip. I chuckle and kiss him, shaking my head. “Oh, trust me, he’ll love you,” I assure Michael, toying with the neck of his shirt. “He’s a _huge_ nerd. You already have _that_ in common.” Michael scowls at me and rolls his eyes, then turns on his heel to face the front door, sighing. 

Why is he so nervous? It’s just my dad. Besides, even if I don’t get along that well with my dad at times, he’s still an accepting, very laid-back person. Judging from the car in the driveway, he must’ve been working from home today. 

Michael shifts his gaze from the dully-painted door to my concerned face, faltering. “Wh-What?” he shoots, trying to smile. I tilt my head to the side, thinking. Michael is one of the most confident people I’ve ever met. It’s rare that he doubts himself or who he is as a person, so this is a bit new to me. The last time I saw him so nervous was at the piano competition, in the bathroom, crying because he was scared he wouldn’t place. 

“Nothing,” I soothe him, bringing an arm around his waist. “Just... Micah, be yourself, big dummy. My dad isn’t like your dad at all. He’s really chill, promise. Dude, when I told him I was dating you, he didn’t ask when I had started liking boys or if I still liked girls. He was mad that I didn’t tell him about it beforehand, but he’s not homophobic. He’s not judgmental, really. He’s, uh, sweet.” Saying all of these things about my dad seems out-of-place, especially since I have a hard time believing some of them. Sure, my dad’s pretty chill and amiable, very kind and understanding, but mainly with people outside of his family circle.

Well, line. It’s just him and I.

Michael inhales shakily, then nods, brightening up. “Yeah? Okay. If you say so, I’ll do my best to–“ 

Suddenly, the door opens, and I swear that Michael shrinks to half his size as my dad appears in the small crack he’s made to look at us. I smile pointedly, letting my gaze dart to Michael, who’s sweating like he just ran from Pittsburgh to Greensburg. “Jere, hey!” my dad greets eagerly, then looks at Michael. “You must be Michael!” 

Michael chuckles weakly and nods, shifting the bags in his arms. “Yep, yeah, hi! Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Heere,” he replies, slowly regaining that Michael-like aura about him that I just adore. 

My dad grins and opens the door fully, shifting out of our way. “Come in! Sorry it’s a mess, Jere’s been out most the week,” he apologizes, and I shudder when I see the full sink from the front door, dishes spilling over. The television is playing some old rom-com flick that my dad’s been watching on repeat ever since Mom left, volume soft and barely above a quiet hum. Michael takes in the sight, and I can tell that his smile is one of feigned politeness.

”You could’ve used paper plates,” I tell my dad through gritted teeth, more of an aside than anything. He shrugs and shuts the door, then walks around us to the kitchen. “You can set your bags down in here,” he informs Michael, and I take the bags and walk to set them on the kitchen counter, Michael just a few beats behind me. 

With an awkward chuckle, my dad leans against the kitchen island, looking up at Michael. “So, Jere’s boyfriend. It’s good to finally meet you! I’d say I’ve heard a lot about you, but Jeremy doesn’t tell me much about anything,” he jokes, and Michael returns his nervous laughter. “O-Oh, okay. Uh, I’m not very interesting, so, yeah... You, uh, have a lovely home. And son, a lovely son.” I feel myself blushing as I unload the groceries and fireworks, back turned to the two. Thank God, because my face is probably bright red. 

“You’re a polite young man. How old are you? What kind of stuff are you into?” Dad asks, trying to make small talk. I’m sure he’ll come to be a lot more comfortable with Michael, but as of right now, listening to their conversation is pure agony. 

“Uh, seventeen. Turning eighteen in a couple of weeks,” Michael replies, voice becoming a lot clearer and more steady. “I play piano, I guess. Yeah, that’s where, uh, that’s where Jeremy’s been. I used to work at an ice cream stand, too. I’m homeschooled, which is probably why I haven’t met you both before now. Had I, Jeremy and I would probably be best friends already.”

I turn around and watch as my dad’s face contorts into a confused expression, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. 

“Homeschooled? Why?” he asks incredulously, like he’s disgusted. Okay, he’s not homophobic, but I guess he’s homeschooled-phobic, if that’s a thing. Michael mirrors my dad’s stance, leaning into the island across from him, tilting his head back a bit. I’m glad he’s getting a bit more comfortable. “Not too sure. Guess my parents don’t trust the public school system much,” he explains. “But really, why does anyone get homeschooled?” 

My dad hums and scratches his neck beard thing, which is in desperate need of a shave. “You’re pretty easy to talk to for a homeschooled kid. Thought they were all hermits and socially awkward,” he replies slowly, which I think may be a compliment. Michael just shrugs and readjusts his glasses, casting me a “please talk to your dad before he says any weird shit” glance before responding. “Yeah, well, not all of us. I’d like to think I’m kind of a normal kid.” He chuckles awkwardly, and I push myself off of the counter and join them at the island. 

“We missed the Fourth of July so we’re doing sparklers and throwing those _Pop-Its_ things. Got small fireworks, too. And stuff to make s’mores,” I interject, but my dad shakes his head quickly. “S’mores, yeah, but fireworks? I’m a bit behind with work, plus the new episode of _Master Chef_ is on tonight and I don’t feel like recording it. Hope you boys don’t mind,” he apologizes, but I really couldn’t care less.

I get it, my dad’s lazy and doesn’t want to leave the comfort of the house. He could’ve just said that and I’d understand.

Michael looks at me and gives me a warning glare, so I guess I’m starting to turn red and agitated. I take a calming breath and nod, then stand up and stretch my arms above my head. “Okay. Well, I guess we’ll be in the backyard then,” I tell him, moving to grab our bag of firework stuff. However, Michael grabs my wrist before I can, pulling me hard and making both my dad and I give him a weird look. 

“Uh,” he starts awkwardly, loosening his grip on my arm. “I actually had a place in mind. Kind of personal.” I stop in my tracks and look over to my dad, then to Michael. “Okay?” 

He bites his bottom lip, grabs the bag, then kisses me quickly before standing back. “I’ll wait in the car. You can, like, say bye to your dad real quick,” Michael urges pointedly, then shuffles back out the front door. My dad and I watch as he leaves, then I turn back to my dad with a partially apologetic look on my face. “Sorry, he’s usually not like this,” I mutter, looking down at my shoes. 

My dad sighs, but then smiles. “All good, Private. He seems really sweet. Next time you wanna come out to me, though, please don’t just suddenly have a boyfriend without me knowing, okay?” he teases, and I laugh dryly. “Sure. Sorry about...” 

“Oh, uh, it’s... Yeah.” 

Great. 

“I guess we’ll be back later, then,” I say after a moment of silence, wiping my palms on my shorts. “He’s staying the night, and we’re leaving for Philly tomorrow, if it’s, uh, okay.” Dad shrugs and shifts against the counter. 

“Yeah, sure. Just call,” he reminds me, and I find myself slowly moving toward the front door. “Of course. See you.” 

With that, I’m out of the house, running to Michael’s PT Cruiser and practically throwing myself into the passenger seat. “Okay, officially the most awkward few minutes of my life,” I mumble, buckling myself in. Michael chuckles and puts the car in reverse, looking behind his shoulder. “He seems sweet, but you two are stubborn and awkward as hell. I feel like there’s a tragic backstory you should be telling me when we set off our fireworks,” he jokes, and I feel my stomach drop. 

Sure, backstory. “Where are we going?” 

Michael just hums, not commenting. God, I hate surprises. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed my pfp are you uncomfortable yet (++ sorry about this all over the place fic lmao ice cream piano and fireworks?? big mood)


	34. July 5 - Part 3

Since we have some time before it’s dark enough to even see fireworks, Michael and I decide to go out for an early dinner. I keep telling Michael that he’s going to go broke, but he assures me that his mom would never let that happen.

As we pull up to the sidewalk next to some place called _The Headkeeper_ , Michael looks at me with a goofy grin, his glasses almost falling off of the bridge of his nose. “What?” I ask nervously, because he only grins like an idiot when he’s either done something stupid or has something stupid to say. However, he just shrugs nonchalantly, smile never leaving his face as he turns off the engine and slips out of his side of the car, leaving me frowning at the glass of his window while he walks around to my side and lets me out. 

“So, you’ve never been here?” he asks, smile still plastered across his face as I jump onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing a puddle because apparently it had rained in Greensburg at some point today. I shake my head slowly and snake my arm around his, linked at our elbows. 

“Nah,” I reply, missing cracks in the sidewalk as we move from the car to the restaurant. “I usually get fast food, but I go to some cafés every now and then. Just not this one.” Michael hums and looks up at the door, opening it for me but not letting go of my arm. “Understandable. My favorite is still _Dv8_ , just because it’s gay as fuck and has such pretty art,” he notes, and I let the smell of food and probably beer engulf me. Is this a bar? “Why’s there beer here? Is this a bar, Micah?” 

Michael looks around and shrugs, waiting for a server to come and seat us. “Yeah, but you don’t have to get beer, dumbass,” he snorts, and a server pulls two menus out of their podium and motions for us to follow him. “Besides, they have good crab dip.”

”I don’t eat crab.” 

Michael gives me an offended look, hand falling from my arm to my waist. “Why? It’s so good,” he pouts, and I pull my lips over my teeth tautly. “I’m Jewish.” Michael pauses momentarily, then sits down in a chair across from mine as the waiter sets down his menu. “Is crab not kosher? Fill me in,” Michael winces, scooting his chair closer to the table and leaning in. 

Honestly, I’m not exactly _super_ Jewish, if that makes sense. My mom was super into Judaism, which is why I’ve been following the faith nearly my entire life. I can agree with some of the teachings and had a Bar Mitzvah when I turned thirteen (before my mom left, of course), but I haven’t been to temple since she left my dad and I. Michael deserves that explanation, doesn’t he? 

“Yeah, well, it’s not a huge deal, but I’m not really Jewish. Like, I _am_ , but I’m not. My mom was really into it, so, like, I’ve been following a kosher diet my entire life or whatever. I still celebrate Hanukkah, and I agree with a lot of what Judaism teaches, but I don’t think I’m, like, a great Jew or whatever. See, I don’t even know how to explain this, what the fuck? ‘Great Jew?’ I’m stupid,” I ramble, hands growing sweaty. Saying all of this out loud is really messing with my anxiety for some reason. Michael taps his finger against the table rapidly, giving me a nervous look. 

“Hey, it’s fine,” he assures me, shaking his head. “Don’t need to know right now, don’t need to identify with any certain religion. Just wanted to know what you can and can’t eat so that I know where to take you from now on, what to recommend.” 

I feel my breathing steady, then sigh and smile weakly. “Sorry, it’s just... I guess I haven’t been thinking about it,” I apologize, not knowing why I got so worked up in the first place. I guess that trying to figure out my sexuality really drained my individualistic insight, and now thinking about my religion is doing the same. “So, like, no shellfish. No crab, no shrimp, no clams or whatever people eat...” 

Michael nods, looking up as the waiter returns, giving us his beer recommendations like we’re adults. It makes me feel old. “I’m good on beer, but could I get some _Mr. Pibb_?” Michael asks, shifting his gaze from the server to me. I wait a beat before asking for _Fanta_ , because I’m boring and love _Fanta_ with a passion. The man leaves with a fake smile, and Michael returns his attention to me. “No shrimp? What a sad, sad life you live, Jeremy Heere,” he mutters, leaning his head against his hand and squishing his cheek. 

Nerd. 

“It’s fine,” I drawl, messing with the salt shaker. “I don’t eat, like, pig products. Like, no seafood either. Milk has to come from kosher animals. Cheese is hard to find because it has that enzyme shit or whatever in it. Oh, I said no seafood, but I can eat fish that have scales, but the skin can’t be torn while the scales are coming off, if that makes sense. I don’t know, it’s confusing to explain after I’ve lived like that my whole life.” 

Michael nods, seemingly remembering every word I say. “Alright, got it. Well, they have chicken wraps, if that’s kosher. I don’t know, I’ll be super aware when picking where we eat next time. Deal?” 

I don’t want to be a burden, but, “Deal.”

———

“Are you peeking again? Jere, close your damn eyes, fool,” Michael groans, moving his hand to cover my face as he drives. I giggle and move his hand, leaning over and looking out the window. “It sure is pretty outside,” I note, gazing at the pitch black of the night sky. I hadn’t realized how much time we had actually spent at the restaurant, but apparently it was a few hours. 

Michael looks out my window, then back at the road ahead, softly illuminated by the dim glow of his headlights. “Sure is. Perfect for illegally purchased fireworks. It’s whatever, though. That’s why we’re driving here. My special place,” he laughs to himself, and I cross my legs under me like a child, leaning forward. “Sounds like I’m going to be murdered, thanks,” I huff sarcastically. “Where is it? Well, what is it, first of all?” 

The land to my right is pretty much barren farmland, and I think we may be in Westmoreland at this point. “Some old farm land that no one lives on right now,” Michael informs me, slowing down and pulling to the side of the road and down a very bumpy path amongst a few trees. “Hasn’t been owned by anyone for a long time. Used to come smoke with some people from my tutoring group back a few years ago down here. I don’t think anyone’s lived here for, like, decade.” I nod and hum understandingly, but then furrow my brow. “ _Smoke?_ ”

Michael pulls up to a small brick house, which is overgrown with dark, snakelike vines and weeds almost as tall as I am. The land around us stretches for several acres, a stark contrast to the downtown feel of Greensburg and the modern atmosphere of Westmoreland. I know that I’ve passed this place before, but I’ve never thought much of it. 

“Isn’t this... Isn’t this _trespassing_?” I ask in a horrified whisper, staring to tremble slightly. I already know that we could get in serious trouble just for buying the fireworks, small or not, plus setting them off when it’s not the fourth. To top that off, we’re trespassing. I don’t think I’ve ever been more concerned for my nonexistent criminal record in my life. Michael chuckles to himself as he shuts off the engine, the quiet humming coming to an immediate stop. It’s silent, _so_ silent, and it’s making me wildly uncomfortable. “Do you trust me?” 

I pause for a beat, letting the sound of my rapidly beating heart fill my ears. 

“What?” 

Michael shifts, his face glowing in the soft light from his car. “I asked if you trusted me,” he repeats himself, and I can barely make out his hands as he reaches for my hands, squeezing them softly. I let myself calm down before returning his smile. I may be terrified of the legality of what we’re about to do, but Michael’s here, and yeah, I do trust him. 

“Of course,” I reply breathlessly, and I hear him unbuckle and get out of the car, letting my hands fall back into my lap. I quickly follow suit, unstrapping my seatbelt and sliding out of the car cautiously, my feet hitting the ground and almost rolling over the small rocks. 

I can’t see shit, but I can hear the soft crunching of the dirt and rocks under Michael’s feet as he makes his way to the back of the car, popping open his trunk and pulling out our bag of fireworks. “I need your phone’s flashlight,” he calls softly from the trunk, and I let my hand rest and slide along the cool metal of the side of the car as I navigate my way to Michael. My other hand pulls my phone out of my back pocket, opening my flashlight app and turning it on quickly, illuminating Michael’s trunk. 

“I say we do the fireworks right now and save the sparklers and _Pop-Its_ for when we get home,” Michael suggests, pulling the small box of fireworks from the trunk and setting it on the car’s ledge. Even though he can’t see me, I nod, watching as he struggles to read the instructions on the back. 

“Apparently I’m supposed to... stick these in the ground and light the string? Shouldn’t be hard. Get my lighter from the center console, please,” Michael instructs quietly, and I furrow my brow at him. “A lighter? What do you need a lighter for?” 

“Fireworks.” 

I huff in disbelief and drag my hand along the car again, feeling for the door handle and opening my door once more. I pull a cigarette lighter from Michael’s center console, shaking my head in disappoint as I return to the back. “You smoke?” I probe, handing him the lighter before leaning against the car. Michael shakes his head in the light of my flashlight, my phone planted face-down on the ledge of the trunk, light shining in Michael’s concentrated face. 

“Not really. Alright, help me out,” he whispers, cradling the fireworks in both of his arms after detaching them from the box. I pick up my phone and let the beam of my flashlight cast shadows along the grass next to the driveway. 

“This is fucking crazy,” I laugh breathlessly. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Michael chuckles from beside me, moving in rhythm with my steps. “Me either, babe,” he cooes, sniffling against the night air. We don’t say anything else as we find a decent spot to set up our contraband, and Michael shoves the pegs into the ground carefully. “We’re gonna have to move quick when I light these, okay?” Michael says quietly, his thumb toying with his lighter. I nod to myself, moving the flashlight over our fireworks. They’re in a candid line, staggered slightly.

We’re probably going to die.

Michael takes a deep breath before bending down to the grass, flame dimly lighting his face as it flickers across the strings from the fireworks, which catch fire as soon as the heat touches them. 

He scrambles backwards with a terrified yelp, staggering to his feet before joining me. I actually screamed and ran back twenty feet as soon as the first firework’s string caught on fire, but I won’t admit to that ever. From a distance, I can hear the faint sizzling and crackling as the strings burn down, sparkling brightly before a few fireworks set off at uneven intervals, zipping invisibly through the night sky. Michael takes my hand and quickly pulls me to the ground, laying down and pulling me on top of him as soon as the first firework explodes far above the farm. 

I chuckle softly, jolting when a huge boom sounds across the sky, making me nervous because if anyone lives around here, they definitely heard that. 

Michael’s right hand holds fast to my waist, fiddling with the fabric of my shirt as we watch the colors flood the dark sky. Red. Blue. Purple. Red. White. Green. Red. Yellow. White. White. Yellow. It’s breathtaking, really, and this makes up for missing the Fourth of July. I rest my head against Michael’s chest as his left hand cards through my hair, pulling slightly as he works the tangles out of my locks. The deafening cracks from the fireworks shakes the ground, traveling through every fiber of my existence as I push myself against the soil.

”I love you,” Michael mumbles against my hair, and somehow I can hear him above all of this noise. I let my eyes flutter shut, our “show” ending with the remnants of a blue firework dancing through the sky. 

“I love you more.” And everything is quiet. And everything is okay. 

Everything is actually okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soft boyes? soft boyes  
> \+ if you’re wondering, i’m dragging this fic through the end of summer up until jere starts school, so i’m sososo sorry for how long this fic is :,))


	35. July 6 - Part 1

**July 26, 2018 - 12:47 AM**

I set my phone back down. Michael and I are a tangled mess of arms and legs as we rest on my bed, which is way too small for two people, while we watch _The Last Dragon_ on my laptop screen. I turn my head to follow Michael’s mouth, which is spouting trivia about the film at unbelievably high speeds.

”–and I read that this part, where he kicks the arrow in half like a fuckin’ ninja... Yeah, that was a real stunt, Jere. This is a cult classic. This is an underrated masterpiece. Took two damn hours to get that right,” he’s rambling, eyes wide and reflecting the flashing images across my laptop. I chuckle to myself and look back at the screen, though my mind isn’t really on the movie. Michael groans as the server buffers, a loading icon pausing the film to reload. “God, should’ve gone with the second server,” Michael complains, moving his finger around on my touchpad to minimize the screen. 

I watch him work without much thought, pretty tired, but overall content and happy. The laptop is resting on Michael’s lap, and we’re both leaning against the headboard of my bed. Well, I’m resting against Michael’s chest, my hair tickling his chin. One of my hands is holding onto his shoulder, and the other is strewn lazily against his chest. My right leg is bent over his legs, and my left is flushed against his right leg. Again, we’re a mess. I’m suddenly so overcome with emotion, which seems to be more often than not, nowadays. I don’t think that I tell Michael how much I love him enough, mainly because I’m not great with words. 

“Michael?” I ask as he clicks irritably at the screen, reloading the movie over and over again. He pauses to look down at me, and I see his glowing features soften in the light of the computer screen. 

“Jeremy?” 

I open my mouth, close it, then look back at the screen. Again, I’m not so sure how to say everything I’m feeling. I never am. “I, uh...” I start, words failing me. Michael shifts slightly so that he can wrap an arm around me, moving the laptop closer to his knees. He picks my head up, his hands cold against my warm cheeks.

I’m reminded of the fireworks we set off together, the thrill of doing something against the law, the comfort of being with Michael. 

“You’re everything to me-e,” I continue shakily, trying to smile up at him. I can hardly see his face now that the laptop is further away, but I know he’s grinning. “I love you so much. Did I ever tell you how I literally cried over how confused I was? I avoided _Tastyland_ so that I wouldn’t have to face my crush on you, like, every day. If I did, I’d... I’d say something stupid. Do something dumb. I was really confused, and I... Fuck, Micah, my therapist gave me tests to see whether or not I was gay or whatever. Like, I asked for them. I was so, _so_ confused.”

Michael snorts softly and brings his lips to my forehead, pressing them into my skin gently. I push him back, giggling, so that he doesn’t ruin my moment of confidence. “I’m a really, uh, unsure person. I worry a lot. But, like, when I’m with you, I just... I don’t.” 

He presses against my arm and kisses my temple, then my jaw. I bring a hand from his chest to the side of his neck, stroking the ends of his hair. “I worry about if what I say is the right thing. If the person I’m talking to hates me. What people actually think about me. If I look okay. If what I’m saying makes sense. If I’m an interesting person. If I’m sweating too much,” I murmur, heart pounding as Michael continues kissing my pointlessly. I think the movie may have finally loaded, restarting. 

“Sometimes, I still do around you, but not... not really. I don’t, actually. You’re making me better. I feel comfortable around you,” I further, talking more to myself than to Michael. “Which is stupid, I know. I’ve known you for, like, two months, but I know this is real because I trust you so much. I’m not sure why or how, but I do.” Terrible explanation, but that’s as romantic as I can get. That’s as _honest_ and _raw_ as I can get. 

Michael takes his mouth off of my neck, eyes fluttering as he searches my face. I smile weakly, shifting my hand a bit to the back of his neck. It reminds me of being in the kitchen, making– 

“ _Llapingachos_ ,” I giggle, shaking my head. Michael chokes on a laugh and burrows his head in the crook of my neck, wedging it between my body and the headboard. “Oh my God, _mi príncipe_ ,” he manages, hair itching my neck. “ _Te amo, te quiero tanto_.” The only part I understand of that is “ _te amo_ ,” which I’m pretty sure means “I love you.” I love it when Michael speaks Spanish. 

“What’d you say? What’d you say, y’know, that day at _Tastyland_?” I recall the time when we weren’t dating and Michael was flirting with me in Spanish, or maybe I just thought he was. He stops laughing for a moment and sits back up, faces inches away from my own. He hums thoughtfully, pushing his left palm against the small of my back. “I‘d be lying if I said I didn’t remember exactly what I said,” he admits sheepishly, eyes focused on my own. “I was so in love with you, God.” My stomach drops a bit. “ _Was?_ ” I repeat, and he shakes his head. 

“Was _and_ am.”

I click my tongue and kiss his nose, sitting back. “Okay, what’d it mean? I’m dying to know,” I urge, and Michael chuckles nervously. “Stupid stuff. I think I said... ‘ _Creo que eres muy hermoso_ ,’ which means ‘I think that you’re gorgeous’ or ‘beautiful’ or whatever. Then I said ‘ _y eres talentoso_ ,’ and that means that you’re talented. Uh, ‘ _Tus ojos me robaron todos mis palabras_ ,’ something along those lines? Basically, ‘Your eyes s-steal all my words,’ which I regret saying because that’s fuckin’ cheesy.” 

My heart melts as he translates, eyes never meeting mine. He’s flustered, and it’s adorable. “Yeah?” I ask, knowing that he said more. “What else did you say?”

Michael scoffs, finally matching my gaze. “I wasn’t the only one speaking a different language, _Pip_. You tell me first.” If I’m being honest, I can’t remember what I told Michael, especially since I was a nervous wreck and don’t speak French well anyways. 

“Hm, I said something about your smile, I think,” I recount, moving my thumb to the corner of Michael’s mouth. His lips curl into a smile. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” I echo, grinning. “Beautiful hair.” I move my hand, which was resting against Michael’s neck, to the back of his head, threading my fingers through the strands of thick, curly hair, which have already grown back out from his last haircut. I should probably get my hair cut before we leave for Philadelphia. Michael giggles and scrunches his nose up at me. “Cheesy.” 

I shrug and press my lips against Michael’s, parting them slightly before sitting back. I’m feeling really confident, which is unlike me. “Okay, what else did you say then? I feel like there’s more, and you’re really leaving me out of your Spanish loop,” I tease, and Michael readjusts slightly, my laptop now blank at his knees. “Just stupid stuff. Probably something like, ‘I wish you could see what I see.’ Dumb,” he explains, and I nod with a grin. 

“You’re cute,” I whisper, moving my head as Michael moves back to my neck, littering the skin with soft kisses and probably a few hickies. “ _Eres lindo_ ,” he mutters, hot breath spanning the length of my neck. I shudder slightly, then sigh, holding Michael tighter and moving my leg higher into his lap. “I love you.” 

“ _Te amo_.”

”I want to be with you forever.” 

“ _Quiero estar contigo para siempre, cariño._ ”

This is nothing that I’d ever dream I’d be doing, cuddling with a boy I absolutely adore, my _boyfriend_ , what the fuck? “What’d you say?” I ask cluelessly, and Michael chuckles into my collarbone. “Just repeating what you said, _mi cielito_ ,” he replies softly, then untangles himself from me to move my laptop. 

Jesus Christ, I’m so hopelessly in love. 

———

Michael left me in his room so that he could do a quick load of laundry, so I’m laying against his _Back to the Future_ comforter, of course imagining him over me, since I’m a horny teenager. 

“This may sound weird, but, uh, if you want anything from my closet...” Michael calls from the laundry room, and I lift my head up to look at a small door next to Michael’s dresser. With a groan, I slide off of the bed to my feet, sliding to the door on the wood floor. I open it and breathe in the smell of vanilla and old deodorant, which isn’t an unappealing smell at all. I card through the clothes pointlessly, just killing time, until I land on a dark red hoodie that's decorated with patches. I let my finger trace over them, identifying a pride flag, a turntable-looking thing, a square that reads “ _MEAN PEOPLE SUCK_ ,” and a _Beastie Boys_ patch.

I snort to myself and gently pull the hoodie off of the hanger, shaking it off of the plastic. I take it over to Michael’s bed, laying it across the mattress carefully. He has a lot of fucking patches. On the front, a few more are ironed on, including a “ _RISE ABOVE RACISM_ ” patch, that bunny from _Bambi_ (Thumper, I think his name was), and an insignia patch with fighter jets on it for some reason. 

As I turn the hoodie over to look at the other sleeve, I’m spooked by a knocking at the door. I whip my head over to see Michael smiling softly, fresh laundry in his hands. How long have we been here?

”My hoodie,” he notices, nodding at the article of clothing in my grip. I let go of it and chuckle, looking at the other sleeve. “ _Bowie?_ ” I read, shaking my head. “You like David Bowie?” Not a bad thing, just that there was definitely a fad two years ago where everyone liked him because he had died. Michael hauls the laundry to the bed, separating it into piles. “Yeah, he was a talented actor, a gifted musician, and an absolute icon,” he comments softly, folding some shorts. 

My finger wanders to a blue cat patch, and I scrunch my nose up at it. It’s Michael, no doubt. 

Michael hums as he shoves some clothes away from himself, throwing his almost-empty suitcase onto the mattress. It’s Tuesday, so his parents aren’t home, which makes this a lot easier and less nerve-racking. I unzip the short zipper on his hoodie before slipping it over my head, zipping it back up to my neck in a jerky movement. Michael looks up and chuckles breathlessly, pulling his phone out before I can get a chance to hide from the camera. “Hey!” I whine, crossing my arms and pouting. Another picture. 

“You’re so cute. That hoodie’s kinda personal, so you can’t, like, keep it, but you can borrow it,” Michael decides, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Also, it’s too hot to wear that outside. I won’t allow it.” 

I stick my tongue out and shove my hands into the hoodie’s pockets, feeling something tucked into my right pocket. Pulling it out, I hold up a _Dum-Dum_ wrapper, then shake my head in disappointment. “Shame, Michael. Dirty boy,” I coo, setting the wrapper on the bed and then flopping back into the mattress.

Apparently our ride is almost five hours long, but Michael promises that his mom transferred money to his debit card. 

“If you want to take a nap, you can,” Michael pipes up, tucking clothes neatly into his suitcase. “You’re getting a haircut, though.” Earlier this morning, Michael had made it a point to make fun of how long my hair is getting. Though my hair grows relatively slow, I haven’t had a cut for a few months, so I’m long overdue for one. Curly locks are poking out from under my ears, threatening to hit my shoulders if I shrug to high. “I know,” I mumble, voice muffled by the mattress. “I didn’t come here to get bullied.” 

Michael snickers and moves to set a hand on my back comfortingly, then pushes a kiss into my neck. “Sleep well, _bombón_ ,” he cooes, but I’m too tired to reply. Something about being swallowed by Michael’s warm hoodie and being surrounded by fresh laundry lulls me to sleep, and I can only think about the next few weeks as I nod off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that michael now canonically has two moms (which is amazing!!) but i already wrote this fic w a mom and dad for him prior to the revival, so yea, i’m sorry!! (+ his dad is p homophobic so that wouldn’t work too well, would it)
> 
> some translation:  
> mi príncipe - my prince  
> te amo - i love you  
> te quiero tanto - i love you so much  
> eres lindo - you’re cute  
> quiero estar contigo para siempre - i want to be with you forever  
> cariño - it’s like sweetie or honey, you get the gist  
> mi cielito - my little sky basically  
> bombón - it’s like sweetie, like the noun form of “oh my god i could just eAT YOU UP,” ik i’ve heard it before


	36. July 6 - Part 2

I wake up under a blanket, which I have pulled up to my chin. My eyes flutter open, first glancing over my body, which is fully laid out on Michael’s bed now. “Michael?” I groan weakly, voice cracking. It’s too bright in here to actually see anything, but I think that I can see a moving figure against the sun streaming in from Michael’s window. 

“Morning, _mi alma_ ,” Michael grins in my face, suddenly appearing in my field of vision. “Haircut time!” 

I grumble tiredly and roll back over, pulling the blanket over my head, hiding my overgrown mass of curls. “Don’t wanna!” Actually, I wouldn’t exactly mind a haircut, especially since I love the way my neck and scalp feel afterward. However, I don’t want to get out of bed, because everything smells like _Michael_ and I just want to shove my face as far as I can into the bed and just take in the sweet smell. Is that weird? 

Michael’s weight is sudddnly crushing me, shoving me into the mattress against my will, surprisingly. “Get up,” he drawls, burrowing his face into the crook of my neck, blowing a raspberry into the skin. I grunt pointedly and try to wriggle out from under him, shoving him off but straining my back in the process.

“Micah, get off me, hoe,” I moan loudly, kicking backwards. He just giggles and holds on for dear life, nails digging into my shoulder. “Jere,” he repeats, completely throwing himself on top of me, which cripples me because I’m a weak bitch with no upper body strength or ability to resist what Michael’s doing. I give up and let myself fall back into the bed, arms pinned under me uncomfortably. “Kiss me and I’ll let you get up,” Michael swoons, face next to mind. 

Hesitantly, I tilt my head to the side, letting Michael kiss the corner of my cheek. 

“Okay, haircut!” 

———

“Oh my God, I hate it,” I gaze in horror at my new haircut, fingers ghosting the ends of my now-short hair. “It’s fucking hideous.” The man who cut my hair snatches the mirror out of my hand, shoving it into a drawer under the mirror. Michael steps up behind me, squishing our faces together and taking a picture of us in the mirror. I’m frowning, and he has a huge goofy grin on his face. 

I pout as Michael runs his hand through my hair, fluffing it out in the front and smoothing down the sides of my hair. “I think it’s _adorable_ ,” he cooes, twisting a shortened curl around his index finger before letting it tumble back over. “You look hot.” I try to hide my blush as I tear the hair apron off of my body heatedly, throwing it into the seat. “I said a little bit. I look like a damn _Chia Pet_ ,“ I whine, stamping over to the counter to pay. I could care less if I offended the hairdresser, who I’m sure gets disappointed feedback often anyways. 

“ _Mi cielito_ ,” Michael babbles, one hand wrapped around my waist and the other holding up my head to look at the cut from a different angle. ”I think it’s very you. You’ll get used to it. I’ll be happy to run my hands through your hair without having to stop every two seconds.”

I growl irritably at Michael and swat his hands away, then pull out my wallet to pay for my disappointing haircut. “You want to learn how to cope?” I shoot at him, handing a ten dollar bill to the hairdresser and shoving my wallet back into my pocket. Michael snakes his hand around my arm and holds it at my elbow, pulling me out the door. “Hey, stop being so negative about it. You’re killing my vibe. I don’t want a whiny baby in my car for five hours, Jere,” he mumbles, opening the car door for me. I sigh as a guilty feeling overcomes me, not feeling too great about my haircut nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” I grumble, climbing into the car. Michael leans down to kiss me before shutting the door, then gets in on his own side, shoving the key into the ignition and turning the engine over. “It’s all good,” he assures me quietly, buckling himself in. 

“Time for five hours of fast food, me gushing over your cute fuckin’ haircut, and _Iz_ playing in the background.” 

———

This hotel is a lot nicer than Travelodge and the other hotel we stayed at for the jazz ensemble thing. Not paying much attention, I wheel my suitcase into the room, eyes and fingers glued to my phone. I text out a message to my dad, letting him know that we got to Philadelphia safely. 

“Jeremy,” Michael sings irritably, waiting for me to get out of the doorway so he can let go of the door and get out of that awkward position he’s in. I hit the send button and look up, purposefully taking forever. I lean against the doorframe for dramatic effect, yawning. Michael just shrugs and lets the door slam on me, pushing me into the hallway and making me land flat on my ass. I yelp in surprise, ignoring the late time and the sleeping guests in the other rooms. Michael quickly throws the door back open and pulls me back up to my feet, shushing me hurriedly and ushering me back into the room. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, but I just laugh, still in shock from landing so hard. 

My butt is in immense pain. 

Michael shuts the door quietly, never letting go of me. I giggle and try to push him away, but he just holds on tighter. “Quit struggling, _chiquito_ ,” he grunts, laughing as his suitcase falls over. A chuckling mess, we walk over to the large bed at the center of the room, falling into it and still fighting. 

“Get off of me, weirdo,” I snort, pressing my foot against Michael’s stomach, which luckily I had discarded my shoes by the door. Michael giggles and moves around my leg, pressing kisses into my neck. “ _Never_. We’re going to have such a great July, Jeremy,” he promises quietly, and I let up a bit on the resistance. With a defeated sigh, I let Michael pull me closer, body flush against mine. “I love you so much, dude.” 

Every night seems the same now, Michael and I gushing over how much we love each other. However, I’m not complaining, because this is the love and affection I’ve been missing out on my entire life. 

I’m just really grateful for Michael, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this is so short!! i should stop writing so many parts to each date oops
> 
> oh i forgot to do translations haha let me just, hnn   
> mi alma - my soul   
> mi cielito - my little sky   
> chiquito - it’s like little one and ik it’s supposed to be for lil kiddos but jere is


	37. July 7

It’s insane how much one person can completely alter the course of your life.

I guess that I think about this every single day, but that doesn’t make the statement any less true. I met Michael the day after school let out, by chance, at some ice cream stand that I probably would’ve just passed had he not started a conversation with me. Isn’t that absolutely insane? I was entranced with the boy the moment I met him, and I came back almost every day after that. 

Hell, I’m sitting on a bench next to Michael right now as his fingers tap against the ivory keys of an old piano in Philadelphia. Again, I _never_ would’ve pictured myself in this situation at the start of my summer. It’s incredible. 

Douglass Jenkins, the man from Michael’s piano competition, leans against the lid of the piano, nodding as Michael strikes chords and notes that work so well together. I don’t know this song, nor do I ever really know the songs he plays, but my chest tightens as the song continues. The bench beneath us trembles slightly as Michael’s foot hovers above one of the foot pedals, not pressing down. The notes are powerful and travel to my core, some deep, some light and cheerful. “It’s wonderful,” he finally says, still playing, gave never wavering from the keys. Mr. Jenkins grins widely, setting his hands against the edge of the piano lid. 

“Glad to hear it,” he replies, then clasps his hands together. “Your take on Scarlatti’s music is breathtaking.” 

I look up at Michael with a soft smile, though he’s not looking at me. I hope he can feel me staring, especially because I’m just so overcome with the calming music coming from the keys. Or the piano, I don’t know how that works. “Thank you. I learned it for my grandmother,” Michael informs us, but he’s probably talking more to Mr. Jenkins. “She loved his music.”

Michael continues playing until the song ends, snapping his wrists back and pushing himself into the bench, shuddering. “I love the way the keys feel. It’s used, it’s deep, it’s...” 

“Mindblowing,” I interrupt breathlessly, setting a hand in the crook of Michael’s arm and squeezing slightly. “You’re so talented.” I don’t care that an adult is sitting over us, watching awkwardly as Michael and I stare at each other in _the_ most cliché way possible. I can’t believe he’s changed my life so much in such a short amount of time. He chuckles and kisses me softly, then turns back to the keys, experimenting with a few chords. “The touchweight is fairly light, especially since it’s older. I love the sound, just because it’s so raw,” Michael continues, and Douglass Jenkins nods quickly. 

“Oh, of course. This one’s forty years old or so, belonged to a church. We only sell _Steinway_ pianos, new and used, as I’ve said, and this branch just really admires your talent,” he compliments Michael over the sound of the piano, which Michael is playing idly, though I don’t think he’s playing any song in particular. 

Michael looks up from the keys and smiles, bringing his hands to his lap. I’m a bit disappointed, because I was getting really into the background music. “I appreciate this opportunity,” he gushes, shifting his gaze from Mr. Jenkins to me. “Do you like the newer ones or the older ones?” Even as someone who doesn’t enjoy piano very much, I can still tell the difference between newer and older pianos, just because the sounds from both are on completely opposite ends of a spectrum, in my opinion. 

With a bit of thought, I tap a key on the piano, smiling as the sound rings in my ears. “Old. Good sound,” I admit, since I’m great with words. Michael nods, bringing his hands back up to play some more. This is actually a song I think I may know. 

“You like musicals?” I ask above his soft playing, and apparently Mr. Jenkins walked away to help some actual customers. Michael shrugs, looking over at me, but his fingers never leave the keys. I listen with a huge grin as he continues striking the chords from the song “ _Do Re Mi_ ” from _The Sound of Music_. I like that musical, but it’s not one of my favorites. Michael’s piano rendition is interesting, but I’m enjoying it, so I won’t complain. 

“Jere, you’re supposed to be singing. This is what musically-inclined couples do,” Michael interrupts my thoughts, giggling. I blush and roll my eyes, but scoot forward and clear my throat as he finishes the first few chords of the intro.

“ _Let’s start at the very beginning_ ,” I sing in a quiet undertone, and Michael casts a sideways glance at me, grinning widely. “ _A very good place to start_...” 

It’s a bit difficult, trying to sing alongside Michael’s gorgeous playing. I really just want to listen, but Michael’s enjoying my singing, and I love how cheesy this is. “ _When you read you begin with_ –“ 

“ _A, B, C_ ,” Michael finishes, winking and then looking back at his fingers. I pick up where Michael leaves off, “ _When you sing you begin with_ ‘ _Do, Re, Mi.’_ ”

”’ _Do, Re, Mi!_ ’”

”’ _Do, Re, Mi_.’ _The first three notes just happen to be_ –“ 

Mr. Jenkins suddenly reappears over the piano, a huge, awkward smile plastered to his face. “Are you two dating?” he asks as soon as I take a breath, and Michael’s piano stops abruptly. Right, because he didn’t see us kissing just a few minutes before. Michael looks at me and cups my face in his hands, pressing our lips together pointedly. Surprised, I keep my eyes open, involuntarily letting them wander to Mr. Jenkins’ face, which is turning bright red. I don’t blame him. 

Michael pulls back and looks at me through heavily-lidded eyes, a hazy smile entertaining his features. “Maybe,” he teases, running his thumb along my cheekbone before dropping his hands to his lap. He looks back up at Mr. Jenkins, who’s grinning politely. “This would make a wonderful campaign. America’s evolving, and so is the music industry. Every company is pushing for gay advocacy, including this one. I’ll have to talk to corporate, but...” 

I shoot him a confused look, heart beating wildly against my rib cage. “What?” I squeak, voice cracking. Michael furrows his brow, smiling weakly. “Gay advocacy?” he echoes in a questioning tone. “I’m not just some token gay piano player, with all due respect.” 

Mr. Jenkins brings his hands up nervously, flailing them apologetically. “No, no, I wasn’t suggesting that,” he corrects himself, but I know that that’s what he meant. “Just that you’re very talented, and you just so happen to have a boyfriend. I don’t even know if this would be a viable option or anything, but I’d love to bring you two up to the big boys just to... see what could happen.” 

I’m still so lost, but Michael scoots the bench back and stands to his feet, reaching out for my hand. I take it and follow suit, itching the back of my leg with my shoe. “We should probably get going. It’s getting late, and I’m hungry. Any recommendations?” he asks, and Mr. Jenkins looks very flustered. “I... I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to...” he starts, but then shakes his head and smiles. “I was going to offer to take you boys out to dinner, if that’s okay. On me. I’d love to learn more about you _both_.” 

Unsurely, I look up at Michael, who’s steeled himself against the man. Our bank accounts can’t be that deep, so I, for one, would love for someone else to pay for our food for once. 

“Actually–“ Michael starts with a negative attitude, but I quickly step in front of him with an upraised hand. “We’d love to,” I interject, proud of myself for making a decision. Michael gives me a confused and offended look, but Mr. Jenkins’ face is relieved. “Okay, wonderful,” he mutters, pulling back his sleeve to look at his watch. “I can leave for the day, since I don’t have much else to do. I’ll meet you at a place called  _Del Frisco's Double Eagle Steakhouse_ , which is just down the road. Does that work for you two? They have wonderful food.” 

I’ve never really liked steak, even when it was prepared according to Jewish tradition. I’m sure they have other things beside steak, but it doesn’t matter. “Sure, we’ll see you there,” I rush, pulling Michael out of the piano shop.

“I don’t want to go out to eat with a man that just wants to use me for my sexuality and my piano skills,” Michael pouts, holding my hand tightly. We decide to just walk down the sidewalk to the steakhouse, and I can see the sign from here. “He doesn’t,” I assure Michael, kissing his cheek as we pass a middle-aged man gabbing away on his phone. “You’re talented, and I just so happen to be attached to your hip.” 

“Package deal.” 

I giggle and shrug, wrapping Michael’s arm around my waist. “Sure. We’re going to make the most out of the rest of our summer, okay? Package deal. If we have to leave Philly to do that, so be it. But, uh, I like it here. Big cities are... interesting,” I muse, gesturing with my free hand at the shops and restaurants lining the street. Michael hums thoughtfully, then nods. “I agree. Are we gonna live in the city?” 

It’s been a little over two months since I met Michael, and barely a week since we started dating. He’s already talking about our future like he knows we’ll be together until we die. How can he be so sure? How does he just know? 

“Sure, not Philadelphia, though,” I murmur, not really paying much attention. Michael will have to get bored of me at some point, right? 

———

“So, how long have you two been dating?” Mr. Jenkins asks as soon as the server leaves with our drink orders, and I press my body against Michael’s in our booth, cold because it’s probably fifty degrees in here. “For a while,” Michael lies, though it’s definitely seemed like a few months. Years, maybe. 

Mr. Jenkins nods, fiddling with a ring on his finger. “I’ve been married for seven years. My wife and I have a son named Leonard, and he’s a handful,” he informs us, and I _almost_ let loose a laugh at the name. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Michael forces himself to say, and I can tell by the quivering in his voice that he’s trying not to laugh, too. “How long have you lived in Philly?” 

The night seems to linger on forever, and I’m getting really tired of the weird questions this guy is asking us. “How long have you known each other?” “How’d you realize you were gay?” “What do you mean, you’re not gay?” Of course I’m not gay, but I don’t really know how to explain that to Mr. Jenkins. Michael looks surprised by my interjection, too, but I could easily explain to _him_ the inner turmoil that is me trying to figure out my sexuality. 

“It’s not that easy. I don’t know how to label my sexuality, but that question’s a bit personal,” I groan, stabbing at my broccoli with a certain sense of disinterest. Michael is the only element keeping me sane right now. 

Mr. Jenkins cuts off a piece of his steak slowly, gazing at me with a mask of admiration falling over his face. “That’s deep, I can appreciate that. I won’t probe, though. So, Greensburg? What’s it like down there?” Finally, a normal conversation. I let Michael tell him all about the small town, the downtown feel, the lack of population in comparison to that of Philadelphia’s. Instead, my mind wanders back to the marketing proposition Mr. Jenkins suggested back at the shop, if I heard him right. I really don’t know how to feel about it, especially since I know that the only reason he’s even mildly interested in me is because I’m dating Michael. 

Not that I mind, but I’m more than a token trophy wife, aren’t I? 

“I worked at an ice cream stand, which is how I met Jere,” Michael’s saying, and I perk up, smiling at the memories. I can shove Mr. Jenkins’ words to the back of my thoughts for now, because it’s not like Michael would make me do anything I wasn’t comfortable with, right? 

“I miss _Tastyland_ ,” I think aloud, bringing a piece of broccoli to my mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I miss Greensburg.” 

Michael chuckles and kisses my cheek, which is moving as my jaw works at my food. “We just got here yesterday. You’re already homesick?” he asks jokingly, and I shrug. Mr. Jenkins looks up, frowning. “I’ll need you boys here for at least another four days, just so we can discuss how to further your career and spread your talent. The company wants to work with you, Michael,” he reminds us, to which Michael hums, mouth full now. 

“Right. We’ll stay as long as Jeremy is comfortable, if that’s okay,” Michael states matter-of-factly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. I feel him move a hand to my thigh, just trying to ground himself. “I think that it’s a great opportunity.” 

If Michael says it’s a good opportunity, I’ll take it without a second thought, no matter how uncomfortable it may make me. That’s a fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> michael’s playing “folia” by alessandro scarlatti, which i learned and never played for anything :,))


	38. July 8 - Part 1

Mr. Jenkins booked Michael a gig at some popular piano bar in town apparently, though we didn’t find out until a few hours before the show. 

Michael and I had decided to take a break from the piano shop and Douglass Jenkins for the day, especially since neither of us knew exactly how to feel about the whole “I want to use you and your boyfriend to promote our company’s pianos while also exploiting your sexuality to gain a new following” thing. We’re trying to let it sink in, the idea floating around in the air but remaining undiscussed.

I tug at my pullover as Michael straightens my collar, buttoning the top button before tucking my hair behind my ears with gentle fingers. “So beautiful,” he cooes, leaning down slightly to press a kiss against my lips. I let the warm sensation overcome me, calming any nerves or uncertainties I may have. I giggle quietly against his mouth, though I don’t break it, just because I’m enjoying this too much. I enjoy Michael too much. In an hour or so, we’re supposed to be at some event a few blocks away, but we don’t want to drive because that’d be wasting gas. Plus, the traffic down here is horrific. I hate the constant stop-and-go current, and I’d rather walk a mile in the city than drive a few hundred feet. 

When Michael pulls back, I remain unmoving, sort of staring blankly past him at the wall behind him. Our room isn’t big, but it’s comfortable. The lights are a sort of orangish color, washing over the room in soft waves. The color scheme is easy on my eyes, mainly just neutral colors and a few light shades of blue here and there. 

Our bed is my favorite part. 

It’s pretty huge, though the size doesn’t matter to me, since Michael and I don’t take up much space anyway. However, it’s so comfortable and soft, and the blankets are cold but heavy, and we have ample cuddling room. 

“Everything alright?” Michael’s voice comes across to me, gentle and soothing. He’s just such a soft person, and I’m completely here for it. “Yeah,” I reply, meeting his eyes. “Just thinking about how much I love you.” Michael chuckles and brings his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. I rest my head against his chest, the position awkward but not uncomfortable. If I were shorter, maybe even Rich’s height, hugging Michael like this would be a lot easier. I’m not complaining, though, because the fabric of his button-down is surprisingly comforting. 

I listen to his heart beat at regular, steady intervals, and we stand like that for a while. It’s nice to know that we can have both spontaneous moments in our relationship as well as more domestic ones like these. “We should probably get going,” Michael finally suggests, pulling away to take his phone out of his pocket. I nod and rock back on my heels, looking down at my shoes. I wear them now knowing that they’re Michael’s favorites, though I still think they’re pretty cute. 

God, I was never straight, was I? 

“Yeah, I don’t want to get lost,” Michael adds, putting his phone away and snaking his hand around my waist and under my arm. We walk out of the hotel room and down the hall, grabbing an elevator to the first floor and then exiting the building. 

For two seventeen-year-old’s, we seem to have enough common sense to navigate the streets of Philadelphia, or at least where we’re at. We can read signs and follow directions when needed, and I guess that this is what being an adult feels like. It’s actually pretty fun, but Michael doesn’t like it much. He gets irritated by other people walking too fast on the sidewalk, or when people bump into him by accident. I can’t blame him, honestly, but I seem a bit more go-with-the-flow for once in my life. 

It must be because I’m with Michael. 

We point out different stores that we want to visit after the gig, Michael finds us a place to eat dinner, and we get to pet a really cute dog on the way there too. Michael interacting with dogs might just be the cutest thing I’ve ever witnessed. 

Upon our arrival, I can already tell that something’s a bit off. A lot of people are somehow already drunk, though this is a bar and I don’t know what I’d really expect. However, a lot of people here seem to already know Michael, even if he doesn’t know them. It’s off-putting, but I let it slide because I’m too excited to hear Michael play again. There’s a weird sort of circle bar around the piano, which is tucked away in a corner, though not hidden or anything. This thing is huge. It’s intimidating. 

And Michael doesn’t like it. 

“It’s too new,” he complains above the buzz of the crowd, arm hooked around my own. “The keys are gonna be weird and slippery. I don’t like it.” I scrunch my nose up at that statement, because even though I prefer the sound of an older piano, I don’t get why Michael would find playing a new piano more difficult than an older one. 

However, he’s the expert, so he probably knows what he’s talking about. From the actual bar, where a bartender is shaking a cocktail shaker, we hear a loud, pointed whistle, and we both whip our heads in the direction and see a tall man with bright red hair. It’s not a natural red, but rather a flaming, eye-sore of a shade of red. He sets the shaker down and makes eye contact with Michael, beckoning us to come over quickly. We weave our way through the thinning crowd, careful not to bump into people holding drinks or plates of food. 

“You must be Michael Mell and Jeremy Heere!” the man yells above the noise, and I realize a bit too late that it’s way too crowded to be four on a Sunday afternoon. “Douglass told me so much about you! I’m Henry, I’m the owner. Well, as my husband insists, _co_ -owner.”

It dawns on me why I feel uneasy. I look around and see that there are huge pictures and paintings of different celebrities that identify as members of the LGBT+ community, including Elton John, Lady Gaga, Sam Smith, and just a ton of others that I don’t even recognize. My stomach drops and I suddenly feel very sick. I’m reminded that I hate crowds. It’s like Michael’s not even holding onto me; I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of people. 

These opportunities really _are_  just about us dating, aren’t they?

Michael comes to the same conclusion, grip on my arm tightening as he scrutinizes Henry. “Is this a gay bar?” he asks in shock, though it’s not like he’s judging the bar on the basis of its target crowd. Henry smiles widely, though I can’t focus on it well because my head is starting to spin. I move closer to Michael, trying to steady myself. 

“Sure is! We opened it a few years back, before gay marriage was legalized. We had our wedding right here!” He gestures to the large room, then picks the shaker back up. “Douglass said that you and your boyfriend would be coming to play. We can offer you a steady rate of ninety dollars an hour, and we were told that you’d play for a few hours. Plus, you have a tip jar, and I’m sure you know that attractive performers like yourself get lots of tips when drunk people are involved.”

A lump in my throat makes it near impossible for me to breathe, and my legs are starting to shake under me. Again with this whole “package deal” thing, Jesus Christ. I loved the joke, and I absolutely adore Michael, but I can’t believe that Mr. Jenkins is using our relationship to win our favor. What’s he even getting out of this? Does he think that Michael’s going to be happy with the money he gets from tonight? Does he think that it’ll, like, make Michael want to cooperate with the company he works for and promote their brand? 

Fuck, he’s got another thing coming. 

I’m starting to freak out, but Michael’s remaining calm and level-headed. He pulls his mouth into a straight line, then turns around to look at the room. His eyes land on me, trembling and sweating, and his face grows concerned. He can tell I hate it in here, and that I hate what’s happening. I don’t hate the bar because its demographic is mainly queer, but I hate it because of _why_ we’re here. Why we got the gig in the first place. I would say why Michael got it in the first place, but Michael wouldn’t be getting all these offers if we weren’t dating, would he? 

God, Michael is the most gifted person I know, but having a boyfriend is probably helping his career a bit. I know that he’s aware of this fact, and I can’t imagine how it must feel to have his talents diminished to his sexuality. Probably awful. 

He looks back up to Henry, an apologetic smile playing across his face. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t play tonight,” he calls over the loud room, which has grown even louder. “Or any other night. There’s been a misunderstanding, I’m so sorry.” Before Henry can even say anything, Michael’s pulling me back out the door, back onto the warm sidewalk. I still can’t say anything, just because everything is too much for me to process right now. I feel so awful. 

I’ve completely ruined Michael’s summer.

I could’ve just stayed in the bar and watched him play, or maybe not been so in love with him and his piano-playing. Maybe I wouldn’t have made us seem like such a power couple or something, I don’t even know. It’s so hot. I’m shaking. I’m starving. 

“Jere, hey.” We’ve stopped walking. Michael and I are planted in the middle of the sidewalk, passerby’s walking past us quickly and without a second thought. “Jeremy, what’s wrong? Are you sick? We’re close to the hotel, we can go back if you want...” 

I can’t even take this anymore. Why am I starting to cry? Nothing terrible is happening. I could be dealing with worse problems, but instead I’m getting worked up over the fact that my boyfriend and I are being used to promote piano culture just because we’re dating. Jesus, I’m pathetic. “I-I’m so sorry,” I choke, hot tears already pouring out of my eyes. Michael furrows his brow, concerned, and pulls me closer to the buildings so that we’re not obstructing sidewalk traffic.

”Oh my God, what’s wrong?” he worries, voice shaking as he grabs one of my hands, lifting his other hand to my cheek. I hiccup and swallow hard, shaking even harder. “M-Michael,” I stammer, sniffling. “Michael, I’m sorry. I di-idn’t mean to make this all about us-s dating! You’re so-o talented and I, I, I don’t want you to just get to play because we’re da-ating.” 

Michael just gazes at me sadly, and I fall apart at the seams. Any sense of composure I had is gone now, and I’m sobbing in front of a... strip club. I’m crying in front of a strip club.

Could things get any worse?

Speaking of the devil, Douglass Jenkins spots us from across the street, likely on his way to come see Michael play at the gig he booked him. Us, I mean. I only see Mr. Jenkins when I open my bleary eyes, still breathing hard and shaking in Michael’s grip. That just makes me cry harder.

“Is everything okay? Do you two need a moment?” he asks casually, as if I’m not having an emotional breakdown and sobbing in front of a strip club. Michael’s grip on me tightens, and I’m suddenly being fucking cradled, coddled. This is absolutely painful, I’m so mortified. “Is everything okay?” Michael repeats sourly, his chin resting on top of my head. I feel his head turn. “Is everything _okay_? Does everything _look_ okay? My boyfriend is sobbing, you booked us some event at a gay piano bar, and you ask if everything’s _okay_?” 

I’ve never heard Michael this angry, and I never want to hear it again. 

Mr. Jenkins is silent for a beat, but then sighs loudly. “You’re right,” he groans, and I just burrow my head further into Michael’s shirt. “I’m so sorry, boys. I... You made it very clear to me that–“ 

“Apparently not clear enough!” Michael interjects heatedly, his hand dropping from my shoulder to the small of my back. “You’re still here, exploiting our relationship so that your stupid piano shop can have a token gay couple promoting their products because what, America’s evolving? So is my opinion on this whole thing. I’m done! I can’t... We can’t do this.” 

Michael doesn’t even wait for an argument from the defense, but rather wipes away my tears hurriedly and hauls me away, back in the direction of our hotel. 

My crying isn’t as bad as it was, but I’m still sniffling and hiccuping, choking on sobs every now and then. “I’m so-orry,” I try weakly, but Michael pulls me closer. “Stop apologizing, Jeremy,” Michael huffs irritably, making me feel even worse. “Can’t believe I _actually_ thought that someone wanted me to play just because they liked the way I played. No, of course it wasn’t. Never is.” 

I guess that I have one of the worst nights of my life ahead of me, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing this: wow this is short  
> me going back to read it: holy shit i really pulled this out huh
> 
> sorry if this is unnecessarily dramatic,, but i kinda felt like it was necessary. i liked writing this bit in, especially because it means soft times ahead


	39. July 8 - Part 2

I wish that Michael would shut up, which is something I never thought I’d say. 

He’s making me feel like crap, and I know that it sounds like a selfish thing to say, considering that I’m not the one directly affected by this situation. However, I’m allowed to be upset, right? 

“He just acted so entitled!” Michael’s fuming, throwing on a t-shirt and changing out of his nicer clothes. I’m too drained to change, so I just watch him blankly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Like what, because his piano company funded my membership for the repertoire? Yeah, maybe. I appreciate that, but he’s exploiting us, and it makes me so fucking, just–“ Michael growls irritably as he buttons his pants, shifting his gaze from his hands to my tired features. 

Michael’s face falls slightly as he notices how upset I am, but it quickly hardens again as he shimmies all the way into his pants. “Wouldn’t expect you to understand, it’s fine,” he mumbles, and I feel myself slip a bit. 

“Jesus Christ!” I nearly scream, hands gripping the mattress as I feel my eyes getting wet yet again. I’m an emotional wreck, aren’t I? “Michael, you... This isn’t all about you! It’s over, okay? We don’t have to work with him anymore, so can you just get o-over it?” My voice is shaking, dripping with agony and irritation. I immediately regret it, though, because Michael’s figure slumps forward, he winces silently, and then moves to sit by me on the bed, putting an arm around my shoulder cautiously. 

And I shake it off, like a fucking baby. 

“No,” I whimper, cracking slowly. “Michael, this... God, I’m sorry.” I move to shove myself against his chest, starting to cry for what, the fifth time today? “I feel like crap for all of this, o-okay? If I wasn’t dating you-u, or if you were just up here by yourse-elf, they could realize that you’re more than this rela-ationship, and–“ 

Michael throws his arms around me, head burrowing into my neck. “Oh, Jere, baby, _shh_ ,” he murmurs, a complete turnaround from his angry fit just a few minutes ago. “Jeremy, this isn’t your fault at all. _Cielito_ , listen to me. Jere, please. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” God, this boy will be the death of me. I force myself to stop sobbing like a damn toddler and collect myself, breathing hard and hiccuping as Michael searches for the right words. 

“I shouldn’t have complained so much, I’m sorry,” he apologizes profusely, pulling back and wiping my tears away with his thumb, which is shaking. “I’m just upset, okay? Not at you. It’s hard to realize that people are just so blinded by sexuality, alright? Jere, baby, I’m so happy we’re together, and if that means that every company or diner or bar wants me to play piano for them just because I’m with you, then so be it. I didn’t mean what I said, either. You would understand, I’m sorry.” I sniffle and take a deep breath, blinking at Michael. 

“No, you’re right,” I mutter, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my pullover. “I don’t understand. I don’t have any talents or gifts like you–“ 

Michael grabs me by my arms and crashes his lips into mine, pushing me back into the bed and clambering over me. I choke on my tears, barely able to breathe as he continues to kiss me. I want to kiss back, but all I can do is bring my hands to the back of his head and pull him closer. I allow myself to be upset. I let myself drown in my sorrows, which shouldn’t exist because I’m a middle-class white boy in a first-world country.

I decide that I _am_ allowed to be sad, because if I’ve learned anything from years of therapy, it’s that letting your emotions out is so much better than holding them all in. 

When Michael pulls back, he lets his face hover over mine for a few seconds, breathing heavily. I look up at him through glossy eyes, smiling slightly. “Don’t ever say that again, Jeremy Heere,” he threatens, scowling, “or else I’ll kiss you until you shut up.” 

“But I–“

Michael connects our lips again, more urgent this time. 

This isn’t fair. Michael isn’t allowed to play with my emotions like this. 

———

We ended up going out to eat at the café that Michael pointed out on our way to the piano bar, and it’s a lot better than I expected it to be. 

Well, as good as any café in Philadelphia can be, I guess. 

“My chai tea latté is _lit_ ,” Michael snorts, sipping from his cup. He doesn’t use straws, the degenerate. I screw my nose up at him as I stab at my strawberry crépes, which are actually really fucking good. “Say that again and I’ll break up with you.” 

Michael chuckles and sets his napkin on his empty plate, then drinks from his cup again. “Sad ‘oowoo,’ Jere. Hey, I saw a theatre a few blocks down. Wanna see if we can maybe drop by and see something?” he suggests, and I shrug, chewing on a bite of my food. “Sure, sounds like it could be fun,” I reply nonchalantly, even though I’m low-key thrilled. Michael? Taking an interest in one of my interests? It warms my heart. 

“Just for you, by the way. I’m not even a huge fan of theatre,” Michael admits, sitting back a bit. “But your face lights up in the cutest way when I mention it.” 

I blush and wipe my mouth off with a napkin, setting it on my plate when I’m done. “Fuck you,” I giggle, rolling my eyes. 

“It’d be the other way around, Jere,” Michael teases, winking before finishing off his latté. Probably. Wait, Jesus, shut up, Jeremy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, i just don’t like jere being sad :((


	40. July 9 - Part 1

I groan tiredly as my phone starts vibrating on the nightstand next to my side of the bed. Fuck, it’s too early for this. Begrudgingly, I roll over to turn it off, but Michael, who I thought was sleeping, pulls me back, arm wrapped tightly around me waist. 

“Michael?” I ask weakly, and he hums quietly in response, tugging at my torso again. I let my phone buzz as I roll back into Michael’s chest, tucking my head under his chin. I feel his arm under me digging into my ribs, but I don’t move, because otherwise, I’m comfortable. My phone stops vibrating momentarily, but then starts up again. I sigh irritably and try to pull away from Michael, who holds onto me even tighter. “Jere,” he whines, pushing his nose into my hair. I chuckle and push away again, my short temper and irritable nature besting me yet again.

Michael whimpers dramatically as I roll onto my back and pat around for my phone, locating it and squinting at the name. 

With a huff, I answer it. Chloe. 

“Jeremy!” her shrill voice screeches, watery like she’s on the verge of tears. I bring my free hand up to my face and pull at me eye in annoyance, figuring that some celebrity has probably died or that one of her favorite contestants on a show has been voted off. 

Next to me, Michael turns over, taking the blankets with him as he pouts like a child. I move my hand from my face to his hip, which is wrapped in a few layers of thick comforter. “G’morning to you too,” I reply with a yawn, blinking away my exhaustion. Michael and I had stayed out until one this morning, first at the theatre, then just to walk around town for a few hours. Chloe sniffles loudly and scoffs, followed by static. “Morning? It’s almost noon, moron,” she spits, but then gasps at herself, and I pull my lips into a straight line, bracing myself for impact.

”Sorry, sorry!” Chloe squeaks, then hiccups. “It’s just, oh my God, Jere. I’m just _so_ upset!” Of course she is. 

Michael rolls back over, crushing my hand under him before throwing his arms across my chest. He moans angrily and shoves his head into my side, which can’t be comfortable. “What’s wrong, Chloe?” I huff, yanking my hand out from under Michael before it falls asleep. On the other end of the line, Chloe gasps loudly, then heaves on a sob. 

“It’s Br-Brooke!” she cries, and I feel a lump in my throat block my airway. Brooke? “Oh my God, is she okay?” I ask, breathing quickening. I’m suddenly very awake. 

Chloe groans and I hear a loud banging noise. Her crying stops momentarily, and I furrow my brow in concern. “Sorry, I dramatically fell against the wall and to the floor too hard,” she manages, but then starts crying again. Thank God I don’t have Chloe-level emotional shifts. “She’s fine. Totally fine. Super fine!” 

She’s falling into hysteric sobs at this point.

I sit up and prop myself against the headboard, and Michael moves to hug my waist, burrowing his face uncomfortably close to my crotch. 

“Then why are you so upset?” I question, puzzled. If Brooke’s okay, then why is Chloe crying herself dry? Chloe sniffles again, puffing. 

Full disclosure, I’ve never been great friends with Chloe. She’s a little toxic, really, and I’m not sure how anyone in my friend group has put up with her for so long. Especially Brooke. Right, Brooke is her best friend, and they’ve been pretty much inseparable since freshman year. However, Brooke really did follow Chloe around like a lost puppy, and it showed. Chloe used that to her advantage, and she _continues_ to use it to her advantage. 

“Because!” Chloe’s voice breaks across my thinking, and she coughs tearfully. “Because, sh-she got a girlfriend, and I’m upset!” 

One, Brooke’s a lesbian? Two, why would that make Chloe so upset? “And that’s making you cry why?” I caution, and I feel Michael readjust, yawning irritably and tugging at the fabric of my shirt. “I...” Chloe takes a shaky breath. “Because I l-like her!” 

“Well you have a shitty way of showing it,” I scoff, and I cover my mouth as soon as that slips out. Fuck, that was awful of me. Chloe goes silent, and I can’t even hear her crying. I pull the phone back to see if she’s hung up yet, but she hasn’t. “I’m sorry, uh–“ I start, but Chloe sighs in disappointment. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

My breath hitches in my throat as guilt floods my chest, causing me to double over a bit with nausea. Chloe’s voice sounds so raw and broken, like it doesn’t even belong to her. I don’t even think she’s ever directly texted me or let alone called me, and hearing this new side of her is starting to change my opinion on her character. Which, by the way, this is so, _so_ out-of-character. 

I let the silence hang between us, miles apart, and listen to Michael’s slowing breath. He’s probably already fallen back asleep, though in my lap this time. I drop my hand to the back of his head and work his hair around my fingers, pulling out tangles and twisting the curls thoughtfully. 

“Jeremy, I just... Oh my God, I don’t even know why I’m talking to _you_ about this, of all fucking people,” Chloe finally says, disgust ringing in her voice. I swallow hard and try to focus on Michael’s hair rather than her tone. “Look, don’t tell anyone about this. I... I really love Brooke. And, like, you know, you’re right. I’m a terrible friend, awful, really, but I’m _working_ on it, okay? Her dating someone else is tearing me apart. It’s making me want to become a new person, but like, for _her_. I didn’t tell you she has a girlfriend, by the way. She’s, well, I think she’s closeted, but I kind of already told a few people about her sexuality, so that’s whatever. It just didn’t come from me.” 

My perspective shifts back to the negative aspects of Chloe’s personality, though I really try to stay optimistic. She was doing great, but then she mentioned spreading rumors about Brooke’s sexuality and ruined it for herself. 

“Uh, okay,” I reply curtly, gently rolling a particularly knotted lock of Michael’s hair between my fingers, working it loose. He’s definitely asleep. “Sorry?” 

Chloe clicks her tongue at me, sniffles, and then sighs. “I’m sorry, that came off bad again, didn’t it?” she worries, and I nod to myself, but my lack of a response confirms her suspicions. “Right, okay, I’m trying to become a better person. What do you think about me, Jeremy?” 

I look at the small digital alarm clock on the nightstand, which reads a quarter until noon.

Fuck, it really is almost noon. 

What do I think of Chloe? Honestly, all I can think about is why she’s calling me of all people, someone who she’s never really had a true one-on-one conversation with. Sure, we’re following each other on _Instagram_ , we’re friends on _Snapchat_ , and I have her number, but she’s never gone out of her way to attempt a conversation with me, not that I blame her, honestly. 

“W-Well, uh,” I stammer unsurely, tearing my gaze from the read digits on the clock to Michael’s sleeping figure. We really should get out of bed shortly. “You can be a bit... much?” 

Chloe’s breathing picks up a bit, like she’s angry, but she pauses for a second and hums. “Okay, what else?” 

Shit, I really don’t know, if I’m being honest with myself. I’d never tell Chloe what I really think about her, just because that’s not a very socially acceptable thing to do. However, even if she’s not a close friend, I still want what’s best for her.

I also want what’s best for Brooke.

At a crossroads with my thoughts, I rationalize that my response should be based on Chloe trying to repair any undesirable character flaws rather than to come between Brooke and her new girlfriend, whoever it may be. 

“I think that sometimes, you come off a bit mean,” I admit sheepishly, index finger wrapped in a strand of Michael’s dark hair. “You don’t really consider how your, uh, actions and words may affect other people, I guess. I think that if you tried to be better, th-though, you could, because you’re a very motivated person.” I add the last bit for good measure, and Chloe seems content with my answer. 

“Right, so I’m mean, selfish, and stubborn, got it,” she all but spits, and I cower against the headboard. I didn’t say any of that, but I decide to neither confirm nor deny her statement. “Cool. Thanks Jerry.” 

With that, she hangs up, and the line goes blank. I let the phone linger by my head for a few seconds, blinking slowly, before I set it down on the bedside table and move both of my hands to Michael’s head. His body rises and falls with his sleeping, and I subconsciously let my own breathing fall in rhythm with his.

I don’t want to think about Chloe and Brooke right now, mainly because it’s not exactly my business. Brooke is probably one of my closest friends at this point, and part of me feels offended that she didn’t tell me about her new girlfriend or her sexuality. She was one of the first people that could tell that I was falling for Michael, that I was questioning my sexuality at all. So why didn’t she tell me? 

My brain is screaming at me to stop reaching for my phone, to stop _unlocking_ it, to _not_ tap on Brooke’s contact name, and to _absolutely_ not call her. 

“Jeremy?” 

Fuck. 

“Hey, Brooke,” I sigh, one hand resting against the side of Michael’s head. Any thoughts of the wonderful time we had at the theatre last night are pushed back to the back of my head, mainly because there are more pressing matters at hand. “So, uh, how’re you?” 

Brooke pauses a beat, probably confused as to why I’m even calling her. We text from time to time, but calling? Not so often. “I’m okay, are you?” she replies cautiously, and I chew my bottom lip thoughtfully. “Y-Yeah, of course,” I blurt quietly, feeling Michael twitch under my hand. “How’s, uh, how’s your love life going?” I really did try to be discreet about that, but clearly it didn’t work out too well for me. 

“Still single,” Brooke mumbles, clearing her throat. “Well, I, uh, can I be honest?” 

God, I feel like there’s some real drama stirring up back in Greensburg. “Sure, of course,” I spill, petting Michael’s hair without a second thought at this point. “You can tell me anything.” I sound so desperate, because I am. I’m desperate for a real sense of friendship with Brooke, which is really sudden to be honest. 

Brooke sighs to herself and then groans. “I lied to my best friend and now I don’t think I can live with this guilty conscience. It’s eating me alive, Jere!” she cries, sounding just like Chloe. They really are the same person, aren’t they? “What’d you lie about?” I ask, feigning an innocent state of being, like I have no idea what she’s talking about. I hear Brooke sniffle distantly, then hear her breathing in my ear. 

“I told Chloe that I have a girlfriend, but I don’t. I don’t know what came over me! Truth be told, I actually like her,” Brooke admits, her voice shy likes she’s ashamed of herself. I can hear the self-loathing dripping from her voice. 

Of course Brooke is in love with Chloe. Of course Chloe is in love with Brooke. Hell, why else would Brooke put up with the constant torment and abuse she suffers under Chloe? Maybe I’m being dramatic, but Chloe doesn’t treat anyone with much respect anyways. Brooke can just tolerate it better than people who don’t give Chloe a second chance. “Okay,” I prompt, waiting for there to be a part two. 

If there is one, it doesn’t come. 

“Oh, alright,” I awkwardly mutter, laughing to myself because God, I’m awkward. “Well, uh, then why don’t you tell her that you like her?” 

Brooke scoffs like she’s wildly offended by what I said. “It’s not that easy, Jere,” she complains, like I don’t understand what she’s trying to say. Does she not know that I’m literally the epitome of confused sexuality and hopeless, secret pining. “You wouldn’t get it. I’ve been best friends with her since ninth grade, and suddenly saying that I have a crush on her would ruin our friendship.” 

Okay, I don’t understand it in terms of her situation, per se, but after hearing Chloe being so honest and raw for once and then listening to Brooke makes me want to wring both of their necks. 

“I think you’d be surprised,” I grumble, paying more attention to Michael’s hair. It’s grown out a lot since his last haircut, and the ends are no longer as closely shaven to his head. I can wrap his curls around my forefinger several times before they’re pulled taut, for reference. “You should totally, uh, tell her how you feel.”

Brooke hums and sniffles, but I doubt that she’s crying. She always sniffles. “I should definitely take relationship advice from the boy who’s had one relationship in his seventeen, almost eighteen, years of existence,” she teases, and I let myself laugh at my lack of a love life. However, I’m pretty fucking content with where I’m at right now, running my hands through my boyfriend’s hair, staying in a hotel with him in Philadelphia. It’s pretty nice, actually. 

“Okay, I’ll think about it. Have to tell Chloe the truth first, unfortunately,” she sighs irritably, and I smirk. Michael stirs slightly, rolling over. I watch as drool puddles around the corner of his mouth and onto the blanket on my lap. 

“Cool,” I reply absently, moving my free hand to Michael’s jaw, cupping his face. It’s easier to take the initiative of physical contact when he’s not awake and so much better at it than me. “Good luck. Let me know how it goes. Uh, for real though. You can trust me with anything, Brooke. We’re... We’re friends.” 

Brooke stays silent for a few seconds, but then hisses to herself. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Jere. Hope you’re having a good summer. You’ll have to tell me all about it.” 

With that, the line beeps, letting me know that Brooke hung up on me. I set my phone back down and draw my lips into a thin line, eyes washing over Michael’s body. He’s starting to wake up, periodically getting caught on a breath and snoring softly. “Micah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along his cheek. It’s late and I’m absolutely _starving_. The adoration I had been feeling for my boyfriend suddenly morphs into my desire for food, only confirmed by my growling stomach. 

“Okay, Michael,” I repeat louder, shaking Michael until his eyes flutter open. He frowns at me and furrows his brow, grumbling angrily. “I’m sleeping!” 

“It’s noon, dumbass. I’m so fucking hungry!” I whine, crossing my arms and leaning back. I can’t exactly move anywhere, especially since Michael’s weighing down my lower half. Michael sighs loudly, sticking out his bottom lip. “Fine. Kiss me first, cutie,” he demands, and I roll my eyes. My breath probably smells awful, and my mouth probably _tastes_ disgusting, but that doesn’t stop me from leaning down to press my chapped lips against Michael’s, who moans tiredly into the kiss. 

Stupid Michael, making me feel so happy and high at twelve in the morning. 

Afternoon? 

“I want _Taco Bell_ so bad right now,” I chuckle, suddenly cradling Michael’s head in my hands. Michael keeps his eyes closed, smirking. “I want _you_ so bad right now,” he murmurs, and I giggle, pushing him out of my lap. 

“Dork, I’m not doing anything this early. Get dressed, I want that potato taco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is unreasonably long haha but like the first part is kinda well-written


	41. July 9 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey,, just wanted to say that this chapter is really focused on jere’s anxiety, which i don’t like but it’s kinda important?? 
> 
> you can skip it if you want, but it’s not terribly descriptive. just a heads up!!

_Taco Bell_ is a lot better when you haven’t eaten anything for the entire day, in my opinion. I don’t have to feel bad about the fact that I just ordered four potato tacos, and I definitely don’t have to feel bad because I’ve already eaten three. 

“You weren’t kidding,” Michael murmurs, gazing at me with a smirk. To my dismay, he ordered nachos, which don’t taste all that great apparently, since he’s only eaten four. “Your metabolism must be faster than Usain Bolt.” I snort and shrug, using the palm of my hand to rub a particularly itchy spot above my eyebrow. “Yeah, well, I usually don’t have much of an appetite, to be honest. Seems like I’m lying, as I eat four potato tacos, but I don’t know,” I inform Michael with a grin, and he nods unbelievingly, propping his head above his laced fingers. 

“Uh huh,” he chirps, disbelief overwhelming his tone of voice. “Sure.” 

I chew my food and roll my eyes, sniffling because these are kind of spicy and I can’t tolerate spicy food. Michael and I got one of those _Baja Blast Freeze_ things to share, which Michael claims is the only reason that anyone should ever come to _Taco Bell_. We eat in silence for a few moments, and by that, I mean that I stuff my mouth and Michael watches me in wonder (“How does he do it?”).

”So, well, elephant in the room,” Michael finally ventures, threading the straw wrapper from our drink through his fingers thoughtfully. “What’re we going to do with the rest of our summer?” 

I swallow what’s in my mouth a bit too hard, setting my throat into an aching blaze as the food goes down. I frantically reach for the drink, choking back coughs and tears. Michael giggles at my pain as I bring the straw to my mouth and down as much as I can, sighing as the cool contents overpower the horrible soreness in my throat. That bite was too big, anyways. “I, uh, don’t know,” I manage, setting the drink back down and crumbling up the taco wrapper. 

That makes four.

Michael hums and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his booth and extending his legs out to mine, knocking my feet. “When does school start back up, then?” he asks, fingers tapping against his arm. I pick the drink back up and finish it off, blinking as I remember that I do indeed have school, and that my break will be coming to an unwanted end shortly. “Should be the seventh,” I recall, my leg tapping feverishly against the ground as I remember everything I still have to do before school starts.

I have a summer reading project that I’m supposed to have finished before school starts, plus all of the lines and stage directions I have to remember for the theatre group’s upcoming production. 

With a concerned look, Michael moves his hand out to grab mine, which is pattering against the table. “Oh, hey, it’s okay,” he tries to console me, though I doubt he knows why I’m getting anxious. Summer reading shouldn’t take too long, and the journal I have to do along with it should be fairly simple, so honestly, I don’t even know why I’m nervous. 

Maybe it’s just the fact that, _fuck_ , it’s my senior year. I still haven’t picked a college, though I’ve gotten a few letters and emails from schools I’ve never even heard of, and I don’t even know what I want to do with my life, really. All of my friends seem to have everything figured out: Christine’s going to _Carnegie Mellon_ , Jake somehow got into _Wharton_ , and hell, Brooke even got into _Northwestern_ over in Illinois. All of these schools have fairly low acceptance rates, especially Jake’s, and I literally have nothing to show for my high school career. I even think that Rich got accepted into _Waynesburg University_ , which although it’s a community college, it’s more than I have to say for myself.

Cue the rapid breathing and characteristic shaking at two in the afternoon at _Taco Bell_ , darting eyes and overactive thinking. 

“Jere, _cariño_ , calm down,” Michael purrs, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb, which travels along the tendon from my wrist to the back of my middle finger delicately. “What’s wrong? It’s okay, you have, like, a month until school starts, okay? Is that what’s worrying you?” 

I _wish_ that that was all that was bothering me. If I were a normal teenager, my thought process wouldn’t be such a train wreck. Honestly, with summer reading, I could just look up the plot summary on _Shmoop_ , which is a much better alternative to _CliffsNotes_ , in my opinion. I could also look at the most important quotes in the book for my dialectical journal, then just copy those down and make up bullshit analyses of each, right? It’s really that simple, yet here I am, making a huge deal out of it. Of course I’m worrying about other things too, but that’s what started this mess. 

Michael sighs inwardly and forces himself to smile, picking himself up off of the bench and collecting our trash. “Let’s, uh, go for a walk. We should talk,” he suggests, and I feel my dread creep over me. I don’t need Michael to be my therapist, and I sure as hell don’t want to load my nonexistent problems onto him. 

He throws out our trash as I stand to my feet, awkwardly shuffling out of my seat and nearing him quietly. Michael takes my hand and leads me out of _Taco Bell_ , the weather outside being not all that hot today. 

“What’s your favorite thing about school?” Michael asks casually, one hand in mine, the other in his front pocket. I try calming myself down, focusing on the sidewalk and on not stepping on the cracks. “I like, uh, my English class. The drama program is pretty good too, I guess,” I mutter miserably, kicking at a twig by my foot. Michael squeezes my hand lightly, humming. “I bet you’re really good at drama and acting. Probably writing, too,” he comments, chuckling to himself before adding, “Always imagined you as an edgy poet, going to poetry slams or whatever.”

I purse my lips and blow an exaggerated raspberry, looking up from my feet and to Michael. He smiles at me with more love than I’ve ever seen in one cheesy romance film, and it warms my heart. His lips curl up in the cutest way, little dimples set symmetrically at each corner whenever he grins. His lips are such a soft pinkish color, never chapped or peeling because he keeps up an extensive lip regimen. 

“Poetry slams? Edgy poet? Look who’s talking,” I tease, momentarily forgetting about school and my successful friends. “You play piano, there’s no way you don’t write music.” 

Michael guffaws and brings his free hand to his chest, gripping it dramatically. “I’m wounded, but shit, you right,” he replies, and I actually laugh. I can totally picture Michael scribbling away at a lyrical work, ripping pages from his journal and beaming them at the floor. “What kinds of songs, then?” I further, trying my best to push my anxiety to the back of my head. It’s not working out too well, but at least I have Michael as a sort of buffer. 

He hums and taps his chin thoughtfully, then readjusts his glasses. “Well, mainly in ninth grade, but it was just shit about being lonely but happy with it,” Michael chuckles, but then grows kind of solemn. 

“Yeah. Pretty, uh, pretty edgy stuff,” he adds, sighing and shaking his head. The mood shift brings me back to the anxious thoughts that I’m shoving back. “Especially when my boyfriend broke up with me, even though that wasn’t until some years after. Those songs were a lot sadder, but as per Dr. Yang’s instruction, I burnt half of those. Kept the other half.” 

He shakes his head again. “Sorry, not important.” 

I frown and squeeze his hand, studying his suddenly disappointed features. God, we’re both too emotional. “Hey, it is,” I say sternly, stopping. Michael stops walking, just looking ahead. We probably look pretty weird to passerby’s, but I could actually care less. I’ll probably pull my hair out over it later, but for right now, it’s just me and Michael. 

“Micah,” I persist, taking both of his hands into my own and pulling him to face me. He shifts his blank gaze to me, meeting my eyes almost reluctantly. “Seriously, I was just making a joke, I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong with writing songs or lyrics. It’s a wonderful outlet, and if it worked for you, it worked. I’m sure your songs were actually really good, even if they were, y’know, really sad.” 

Michael sighs a laugh, shrugging. He seems a bit less tense now, but after searching his eyes, I can tell that he’s still feeling like shit. And that was my fault, wasn’t it? Just like that, my anxiety’s back. I start walking again so that I don’t have to add “ _weird teenagers standing in the middle of the sidewalk_ ” to my list of embarrassing shit I've done today and have to worry about later on. “Yeah, well, they were pretty pathetic, but, uh, it’s in the past, if that makes sense. I don’t like thinking about it,” Michael plays it off, shoving his other hand back into his pocket. I swallow hard and silently curse at myself. 

“Another story for another day, I guess. Back to, uh, whatever we were talking about,” he passes the ball back to me, and I cast my eyes back to the sidewalk. 

“Well, uh, I have that play coming up,” I change the subject, biting back my anxiety and readjusting my hold on Michael’s hand. He hums and nods as we look across the intersecting streets to cross. “How’s that coming? Have you been studying your lines?” 

I think I’ve given myself away with my uneasy silence, because Michael looks down at me understandingly. “Is that what’s making you upset?” he inquires, trying to sound as conversational as possible. I shakily sigh and nod, chewing my bottom lip. “Y-Yeah, that. A few things, I guess, but they’re stupid and I don’t know why I started thinking about them. Just dumb stuff.” Michael tugs my hand softly, clucking. “Jere, it’s me. You can talk to me about that stuff. I know you’re probably missing therapy being up here, but that doesn’t mean you have to bottle everything up.” 

That’s exactly what it means. 

These aren’t Michael’s problems. In fact, they’re not even problems. I make mountains out of molehills, as my dad likes to constantly remind me, and that’s nothing that I should load onto Michael. The thought of burdening him with my dumb train of thought makes me feel sick to my stomach. That and the four potato tacos I just ate. 

“No, it’s, uh, it’s fine,” I avoid the offer, swallowing a lump in my throat. I feel like I might vomit. “Can we, like, find somewhere to sit, though?” 

Michael nods quickly, spotting a tall cement ring around a haphazardly-placed tree in the sidewalk, and we walk over to sit on the edge. I let my hand drop from Michael’s as I ease onto the ring, setting my elbows at my knees and shoving my face into my hands. I can’t imagine how pathetic I must look right now, and I wish that my thoughts didn’t have such a huge effect on my mental as well as my physical well-being. Michael rubs my shoulder cautiously, peering at me through my covered face. 

“ _Cielito_ , c’mon,” Michael urges once more, and I feel myself cracking more and more under the pressure to admit to my rushing thoughts, which now cover the topics of school, my social life, how stupid I look right now, the fact that I’m not even close to ready for the play, and even back to how I’ve pretty much ruined Michael’s chances at becoming a summer bigshot in the piano industry. I’m not even sure where that one came from, especially since I thought that I was over it, but anxious Jeremy likes bringing up the past. I groan and shift my feet, my shoes scraping loudly against the concrete. 

“Th-This is so stupid, I’m so sorry,” I grumble, still feeling nauseous. “I... I hate that you have to see me like this. Fuck, _I_ hate seeing me like this.”

Michael’s hand falls from my shoulder to my forearm, squeezing lightly. Michael, who I met at the beginning of the summer. Michael, who made me grieve and cry over my confused mess of a sexuality. Michael, who’s seen me at my best and at my worst. Michael, who’s here for me as a friend and a boyfriend. 

I live by simple principles, really. For one, I don’t talk to people about my emotions. I have a therapist for that. Two, if I don’t have something important to add to a conversation, then I don’t say it. Three, if I’m worried or close to tears, then I should leave the room or force myself into solitude to reflect on my emotions rather than alarming other people and making them feel bad for me. 

So how the fuck has Michael broken all of my rules after knowing me not even two months? 

The thought just makes me even more nervous, and Michael’s starting to get more and more concerned.

“Jere, what do you mean, you don’t want me to see you like this?” he asks softly, leaning forward to get a better view of my face. “I love everything about you, okay? Even this.” He gestures broadly to my shaking figure, and I lift my head slightly, sniffling. “Fuck, Jeremy, really. Your nervousness and just general anxiety don’t define you. You’re not some helpless, anxiety-ridden teenager. You’re Jeremy. I feel awful that you’ve reduced yourself to anything else, of course, but if I’m in a relationship with you, I’m not just dating the ‘good’ parts of you. I’m here for the bad parts too.” 

Damnit, Michael. I choke back a sob and fall against Michael’s chest, breathing hard. I don’t know what to make of his words other than they inexplicably alleviate my nausea and my creeping headache, even if I’m still anxious. 

“I’m sorry,” I manage, licking my lips. “It’s, God, it really _is_ stupid. I just started thinking about that play and then summer reading and then how all of my friends have their shit figured out, how I’m still here in Philadelphia living out some stupid fantastic, and–“

Michael pushes me back, eyes cloaked in a layer of sudden offense and maybe even anger. “‘ _Some stupid fantasy?_ ’”

I shake my head and shudder as the self-loathing washes over me again. God, it’s not enough to just make myself feel bad, is it? I have to fuck with other people’s emotions too, don’t I? 

“No, no,” I rush desperately, eyes begging Michael to not take it the wrong way. “No, I’m s-so sorry. Not a f-fantasy. Like, I could be ho-ome, re-re-reading the book I’m supposed to be wo-orking on, going over my l-lines, looking into colleges.” Michael tries to mask his disappointment and hurt, but he fails. Jesus Christ, I can’t make things any worse. 

“Jeremy,” his voice cracks, and he looks pretty close to tears at this point. “You didn’t have to come, I didn’t force you to come with me. I’m sorry that spending time with me is, like, dooming your future or something. We can go home whenever you want, I... I _told_ you that.” My stomach drops as I search for something to say, my words failing me just like they always do. My head is screaming that Michael isn’t having a negative effect on my summer at all, that even if I were at home, I wouldn’t be doing my reading or studying my script or applying to colleges. 

Of course I can’t manage to say any of that. 

Michael’s sad look turns into a distraught glare, like he’s waiting for me to correct him. “Oh,” he utters, realization falling over him. “So spending the summer with me _is_ fucking up your life, huh?” 

And that’s when the sobbing comes, the hysteria, the bawling and the apologies and the overwhelming guilt. I wanted to correct him, to let him know I love him and spending time with him, but not in such an insane high. 

“N-No, I’m... _Michael!_ ” I start shouting, gaining concerned looks from people passing by. My vision is starting to blur at the edges, first colorful and dizzying, but then black and narrowing. I stare at Michael with wide eyes, starting to tremble even harder against his grip, which I’ve suddenly become aware of. His hands hold me at either side of my face, cool against the burning skin. My tears roll down my cheeks and onto his fingers, even hotter than my face.

Oh my God, I am _such_ a fucking child. 

“Michael, p-please!” I choke, sobbing at this point. He really has seen me at my worse. I try to inhale, but my breath gets stuck in my throat, and I suddenly can’t push any air out or take any in. I move a hand to Michael’s shoulder, trying to steady myself as my other hand flies to my chest. 

 _Focus on physical things you can see_. 

I blink away my burning tears and wash over Michael’s features, trying to focus on his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his glasses, _something_. It feels like I’m dying. I can’t breathe, it’s getting hard to see, my inner voice screaming in my ears so that I can’t hear anything that Michael’s saying. His mouth is moving, so I guess he’s talking. 

Some random woman from the sidewalk appears by Michael, talking to him worriedly, but Michael smiles softly and nods, a thumb pressing lightly against my neck. It’s grounding, but I’m still in hysterics. 

“ _He’s... It’s okay, though... if... have a..._ ” is all I can make out, but my understanding of what Michael’s saying is better than it was. The woman shoots me a pitying, sad grin, then continues her commute. I feel worse, but at least I’m coming down from my state of panic. My vision is starting to clear up, and I’m gulping for air successfully this time. Michael pulls me against him, his breath slow and steady. I try to align my breathing with his, upset with myself for getting so upset in the first place. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Michael’s repeating like it’s a mantra, and I burrow my face into his shoulder, sniffling and shaking.  _It’s alright, it’s alright_.

A few minutes later, I’m able to collect myself enough to ask if we can go back to the hotel room. Michael immediately complies, and we walk back in the direction from which we came. You’d think that I’d learn after having a few emotional episodes in front of Michael that I’d be comfortable with telling him how I feel or okay with him seeing me upset, but that’s not the case, unfortunately. 

However, at least now I know that I have to talk things out with him, to figure out a plan for the rest of the summer so that I can stabilize my emotions before school starts.

At this rate, he’ll probably break up with me a few days after school starts, and I definitely don’t blame him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: hates it when jeremy’s characterized solely based on his anxiety  
> me: writes like 3000 words about jeremy being anxious over literally nothing 
> 
> sorry,, i haven’t been feeling the best!! i like projecting myself onto characters, so i hope you can excuse this mess of a chapter. again, your support makes me happy and warms my heart, so thanks so much again!!


	42. July 9 - Part 3

Michael decides that the best way to wind me down from what he thinks is a panic attack is a warm bath, but I seriously doubt that I had a panic attack. 

Sometimes I just think too much. 

“You looked like you were gonna pass out, Jere”, he recalls nervously, running his hand under the faucet in the hotel room’s tub. “You were pale as fuck. We have to talk about that.” He’s still stuck on the fact that I don’t want to talk about why I got upset, but really, there’s nothing to talk about. I already told Michael why I was upset, didn’t I? There isn’t anything else to talk about. 

I stand at the counter, back against the sink as I watch Michael fill up the tub. I don’t want to take a bath, _especially_ if Michael’s going to insist on staying in here. My arms are crossed tightly across my chest, shaking slightly as I still feel the effects of my episode rack my body occasionally. 

Michael looks back at me as the steady hum of the splashing water echoes off of the empty bathroom walls, his face full of concern and hurt. “Jeremy, I’m not kidding you. I understand what it’s like to... to suffer from a mental illness. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but relationships are founded on trust and understanding. And communication,” he furthers, hand hanging over the edge of the bathtub. 

I continue staring blankly at Michael, pretty much drained mentally and emotionally. I think I may not have any physical energy left either, actually. 

“Jeremy.”

God, if he says my name one more time, I’ll probably crack.

The entire way back from _Taco Bell_ , I didn’t say anything to Michael. I guess I can just blame my roller coaster of emotional well-being on being a pubescent teenager, but Dr. Yang says that not every emotion is caused just by hormones. No, he says it’s okay to feel anxious and upset or depressed or confused, that I don’t always have to blame it on being a teen. 

However, that doesn’t justify my behavior towards Michael, who really hasn’t done anything wrong. Sure, I wasn’t thinking about my issues until he brought them up, but I can’t put that on him. 

I blink and look up at Michael, who’s suddenly looming over me, face dark. He looks terrifying like this, so scared but so powerful and... God, shut up, Jeremy. “Jeremy, you look like a fucking ghost,” he breathes, hands on either side of me against the counter. I swallow hard and blink away those pesky tears that have already started forming at the corners of my eyes. 

“You need to get in the bath.” 

Even if I wanted to, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop Michael from helping me out of my shirt, my pants, my shoes, my socks. I’m weakened physically by my mind, which is a mesh of racing thoughts and nothingness. Nothing in between, but rather both at once. Michael gives me a second to step out of my underwear, but I literally can’t bring myself to do it. I just want to lay down and sleep, because I wouldn’t have to deal with all of these thoughts buzzing around my head.

I feel heavy, but I feel light. 

“I’m taking off your, uh,” Michael warns me, eyes not drifting from my own dead gaze as he pulls down my underwear, helping me step out of them before tossing them to the floor with the rest of my discarded clothes. They look filthy. 

Michael takes my hand and leads me to the tub, letting me step in with what little energy I have left before making sure that I sit down without slipping. I’d probably grieve over how pathetic this all is if my brain wasn’t already overflowing with self-pity and loathing. I don’t even know how to feel right now, which is worse than just feeling either anxious or upset. Or both. At least then, I could pinpoint my emotions. 

Right now, I can’t even feel Michael’s hand on my shoulder. I just see it out the corner of my eye.

”Can you at least tell me what’s bothering you? We don’t even have to talk about it,” he’s pleading, and I look up at his tearful eyes, feeling a new emotion. Oh, it’s just guilt. 

I breathe in deeply, then look back at the water, bringing my knees to my chest and resting my chin on top of them. 

“ _Please_.”

My heart breaks at the way Michael’s voice falters, cracking slightly as a tear falls from his eye. He moves to wipe it away, but I grab his arm, drying it with my other hand. He looks at me sadly, lip quivering. God, he must really care a lot about me to still be sitting here. 

With a breath, I gather any ounce of motivation I have to deal with my issues, then exhale softly, air blowing up at his face. “It’s...” I start, sighing. I try to focus on his shirt, making out the cracked and faded print of some old video game logo. “I don’t know.” That’s as much as I can gather from my maze of a mind, as edgy as that sounds, but I can’t put a finger on any one thing that’s upsetting me. Even if I could, it would be such a small and trivial part of my emotions that it’s not like anything Michael could say or do would make it better. 

Michael grabs my wrists and holds them by his head, though my hands aren’t actually anywhere near touching him. 

“Jeremy, _please_ try to think,” Michael begs, his face a deep, flushed pink. His eye bags are especially pronounced today. “I can’t stand seeing you like this. It’s hurting me.” His voice sounds so raw, and I want to tell him what’s wrong, but I literally can’t even put what I’m feeling into words. I already told him why I was upset, so what else does he want from me? Am I just supposed to tell him again? 

“I haven’t done my summer reading,” I repeat from earlier, eyes tracing Michael’s worry lines. “But even if I was at home, I probably still wouldn’t be doing it, because my work ethic kind of just doesn’t exist half the time.” 

Michael nods, thumbs running along my wrists. “I can understand that,” he sympathizes, eyes still glossy. I sniffles and look away, ashamed that I’m dragging Michael through my emotional turmoil when it’s not his responsibility to put up with it. Michael tugs at my wrists again, pulling me to look at him. I feel really gross and pathetic, sitting naked in a tub while complaining about problems that have no substantial rhyme or reason. “Look at me, Jeremy. I know you’re upset for other reasons, too. Communication is really important.” 

 _Communication is really important_.

“I haven’t remembered all of my lines for the play for theatre camp,” I add, emotionless. Michael’s eyes are shining even brighter now. “I’m going to let everyone down, yet again, because I didn’t take the time to remember my lines. 

“My social life is going to fall apart at school because people are gonna be mad that I didn’t hang out with them enough this summer,” I start breathing hard, not knowing when to stop. My emotions might just be making a comeback. “Even if I manage to stay friends until the end of the year, this is my last year of high school. That’s it. They’re all going to college, which most of my friends have already been accepted into colleges or have at least applied to a few, and I’m just going to be Jeremy, the failure, once again. 

“My grades aren’t the best, but senior year is going to kick my ass, and I can already tell. My ‘friends’ aren’t gonna help me with class and homework because I’m annoying and so fucking emotional,” I spill, and now I can separate my emotions into a few specific categories: self-hatred, regret, and pessimism. I’m not sure if pessimism is a mood or a state of being, but perhaps I’m in both.

“I don’t know.” 

Michael’s gaze doesn’t waver, but rather strengthens in intensity. He lets go of my wrists and reaches for the small bottle of hotel shampoo on the ledge of the washcloth rack, squeezing some into his palm and rubbing his hands together slowly, then poising them above my head. 

“Lay down,” he instructs, and I cross my legs self-consciously, then slide onto my back and let the tub water clog my ears, every noise or bump against the bathtub echoing loudly. I feel Michael’s hands in my hair, his fingers scrubbing my scalp carefully. It’s very relaxing, but being in the tub with Michael cleaning me seems to be the most releasing thing. He may not be able to understand exactly what I’m feeling, but at least he’s trying.

Michael rinses his hands off in the water, then moves them back to my head, fingers working at the soapy hair as he rinses it out. 

I let out a steadying sigh, and then Michael rubs my shoulder, pulling me up. I lean up into a sitting position, letting Michael put soap on a washcloth. “Is that everything?” he finally asks, lifting my arm to wash under it. I sigh cluelessly and close my eyes, remembering how awful I feel for dumping all of this on Michael. 

“I guess I’m upset that I keep on making life hard for you. You seem to always have to come running to my rescue as soon as I start having an episode or a meltdown, and I feel so awful about it,” I admit, rubbing my eyes with my arm. 

Michael looks at me with a smile, then shrugs. “Well, as a person who loves every part of you, I think that dating you includes dating the parts of you that you may not like, too.” 

I exhale and look up at him with a smile, feeling better even if I didn’t really go into depth about my problems. Something about Michael’s presence is just so calming, and maybe I was wrong about him breaking up with me shortly. He acts like he’s here to stay or something. 

And I hope he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s 1:36 am sorry


	43. July 10 - Part 1

I’m having a tough time falling asleep, which I blame on the fact that Michael and I napped from the time we got home until around six. We went out to get pizza and then came back to the hotel room, and before we knew it, a new day had already started. 

It’s almost two in the morning and Michael and I are scrolling aimlessly through our phones, periodically showing each other cute pictures of dogs or articles about old video games that may be getting a reboot. I glance over at Michael’s screen and see him scrolling through his own _Instagram_ page, and I try not to snort as I remember the one time I looked up his page and saw the picture of him and his ex-boyfriend. However, like an idiot, my attempt to bite back my laughter is thwarted, and I quickly snap my gaze back to my own phone as Michael casts a questioning glance my way. 

“What?” he asks curiously, looking at my phone. Of course my screen is just blank, because I turned it off to give my eyes a break. He looks back at his phone, squinting at his profile. “Did you see something funny?” 

I think that telling him the truth would probably flatter him, but there’s also a chance that it’d just creep him out. Unfortunately, it’s two in the morning, which means that my filter is off and that I’m prone to laugh at everything, even if it’s not funny at all. “Before we started dating, I stalked your _Instagram_ ,” I admit, smirking at the way I got jealous over some old picture of Michael and his ex. 

Michael blows a raspberry and kissing my cheek, then looks back at his phone. “You could’ve just asked for my username. I would’ve told you,” he teases, pulling up a picture of him holding up a signed book that I’ve never read. “You saw this and _still_ fell in love with me?” 

I look back at his screen and chuckle, shrugging. “No, I fell in love with _that_. I’m only dating you because you used to look like a hot piece of ass,” I joke, bringing my finger to his phone and letting it linger over the awkward image, and Michael gasps in feigned offense. “I’m sorry that me now isn’t good enough for you, Jeremy. I’m sure you have some awkward pictures on your _Insta_ , too.” Boy, is he right about that. 

“Nah, just–“

”What’s your username? We’ve been dating for, like, two weeks and you still haven’t followed me!” Michael pouts, and I bite the inside of my cheek. Reluctantly, I take his phone and type my username into the search bar, hesitating to click on my profile. I have a private account, mainly because I like being able to know every person who tries to follow me. Right, because _that’s_ why I have twelve followers. 

Michael snatches his phone back and quickly clicks on my profile, sending a follow request before plucking mine from my hand and unlocking it to accept the request. “I could’ve done that,” I mumble, and Michael puffs out his cheeks as he hands me back my phone, face lit up by his own. He just hums in reply, fingers navigating his way through _Instagram_ and to my page. I rack my brain as I try to remember any embarrassing photos that I may have posted, though I usually just use my account to repost videogame giveaway things, but also some pictures from my “travels.” 

I lean my head against Michael’s shoulder, eyes briefly skimming what few posts we can see as soon as he opens my profile.

My profile picture is some awkward picture of Christine and I last Halloween, dressed as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern from _Hamlet_ because we’re massive dorks. No one could tell who we were supposed to be, but it didn’t matter, because _we_ knew who we were, and that’s all that mattered. Michael brings the phone closer to his face, squinting at my profile picture. “Which play was this from? Is this some weird renaissance, like, Mario and Luigi thing?” he asks, and I snort, shifting my head to kiss his cheek. 

“No, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” I correct him softly, and he smiles as he clicks on the first post on the page. Oh, a picture I took at the beach with Christine. In the picture, which was originally just supposed to be a nice picture of the water and the sand, Christine is running into my shot, a weird expression splayed across her face as her blurry figure taints my picture. 

Michael giggles and taps on the image, displaying Christine’s profile tag. “‘ _Casket of Canigula?_ ’ Like, by Poe?” he comments, then double-taps the post to like it. “Canigula is a weird name.” 

I chuckle and shake my head. “No, it’s Christine. She’s my best friend,” I mutter, and Michael yawns, nodding. “Oh, alright, gotcha,” he replies, then exits that post and taps on the next, liking that one too, which is a weird picture I posted of a stain on my wall. I really have no clue where that stain came from, but it was just there one day. My five followers appreciated it. “You like nutting on things? Hot.” I turn red and roll my eyes, though my search history for _bukkake_ would probably beg to differ. 

“Shut up, no,” I defend myself, swiping right and going back to my profile. Michael continues going through my pictures, pausing at an old selfie I posted for some reason about half a year ago. I guess I thought I looked cute or something. 

“Jere, when did you start knowing you liked me?” Michael asks quietly, his voice hushed but steady. I feel my heart skip a beat, my stomach turning over uncomfortably. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t really know exactly when I started liking Michael. I don’t know when I fell in love with him, since I don’t exactly believe in “love at first sight.” I stare blankly at his phone screen, then let my eyes wander to Michael’s face. He moves his head to look down at me, and I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. The boy’s an enigma. 

I sigh softly and grin, bringing my hand up to his cheek, pressing my thumb against the corner of his mouth. His lips curl up slightly, his eyes fluttering. “I fall in love with you over and over again every day,” I purr, cheeks warm. That was pretty smooth, Jeremy. “You really fucked with my mind at the beginning of the summer, Micah.” 

Michael furrows his brow and makes a soft noise at the back of his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I bite back my words before I speak without thinking, realizing that that came out a bit wrong. “I mean, uh,” I try again, shaking my head. “Like, I thought that I was straight my entire life. And I still thought that I was, like, when I met you. You flustered me. You confused me.” 

I’ve told Michael this before, but not in this much depth. 

“I wasn’t supposed to be feeling... _feelings_... for you. I liked you a lot, and that was totally new to me. I still don’t know what I identify as sexually, but it doesn’t really need a label, right? I don’t think I’m, like, gay, but I don’t think I’m bisexual, either,” I explain, confusing myself. This is why I don’t bring up my sexuality. 

Michael draws his lips into a line, then opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I decide to interject, instead. “But, like, it doesn’t matter. I’m dating you, and I’m happy with that. I feel romantically attracted to you, so...” He blinks and chortles, kissing my forehead. “Oh, Jere. I know you’re not gay, but you’re right; you don’t need a label. Am I, like, an exception?” Michael questions, and I nod excitedly. So he gets it, right? 

“Yeah, my exception,” I agree, laughing. “My exception.” 

“Maybe you’re heteroflexible,” he muses, breathing soft. I give him a puzzled look, trying to figure out what the foreign word means. I like Latin roots and stuff, but maybe it’s not what I think it is. “Like, you’re straight, but maybe you meet a dude you really like. Your exception.” 

Actually, that sounds right. That’s _exactly_ what I am. 

“Oh my God, yeah!” I exclaim, quickly quieting myself. It’s too early to be this happy. I guess I’m just excited to find a label that makes sense. “I mean, yeah, you’re right. I think I may be...” 

“Heteroflexible?” 

I nod and rest my chin on Michael’s shoulder. “Yeah, that.” Michael chuckles and looks back at his phone, turning it back on. “I think you might just be _Michael-sexual_ , actually. I’d prefer it to be that way,” he jokes, and I shove him lightly. I might just be Michael-sexual, who knows? 

“Alright, whatever. I love you, but I think I should sleep if we’re supposed to be spending our last day in Philly out in the city,” I declare, kissing Michael’s cheek before sliding down into my covers, readjusting my pillow and letting myself melt against the mattress. I smile as I feel Michael’s hand in my hair, running through the shorter locks carefully. God, it’s so soothing. I close my eyes and slow my breathing, forgetting about my anxious thoughts from yesterday, everything I have to do before school, college...

It really doesn’t matter in this moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slower updates,, i haven’t had much motivation to write these ahh thanks for still reading for some reason??


	44. July 10 - Part 2

Philadelphia would be a lot nicer during the fall, I think. 

Quite frankly, I _hate_ summer, so maybe I’m a bit biased. I’m not feeling this weather, the way the sun beats against the top of my head and makes my neck all sweaty. It makes holding hands with Michael a lot more uncomfortable, mainly because I worry about how gross my hands are, which makes them sweat even more.

However, this doesn’t stop us from staying connected at our intertwined fingers, arms swinging slightly as we walk through Washington Square. Despite the undesirable weather conditions, I actually really like this park. There’s a huge stone arch dictating the entrance, engraved with beautiful curves and shapes that I can’t seem to tear my gaze from. In the blurred edges of my peripheral vision, I can make out the soft colors of passing people, enjoying the heat and the sun and the company of their friends and family. The cement under my feet crackles softly, though my hearing is a bit shot because I’m just focusing in on what Michael’s talking about. 

“ _–which is funny, since I don’t even like bologna, so why was I trying so hard to defend its existence?_ ” 

I nod like I’m listening, which I am, but I’m more listening to what I’m seeing, tracing those ledges and geometrical masterpieces on the stone arch, taking in the work and effort that must’ve been put into the architecture. 

“ _That’s whatever, though. I had a bad experience with bologna, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t deserve the same respect as other lunch meats. It never did anything to hurt the guy, so who was he to trash it like that?_ ” 

I’m not even aware of my muscles contracting and moving my legs forward, each step sending nerves up my legs and straight to my head, making my ears ring slightly. The way Michael’s walking takes the arch out of my immediate line of vision, so I turn my head to follow it as we continue walking around the huge fountain set at the center of the square. Children squealing and splashing around in the water as it shoots into the sky, the softest mist showers us as we pass. 

“ _You’ve probably never had bologna, but you’re really not missing out. It’s probably not even real meat. I don’t know, the one time I had fried bologna just absolutely ruined it for me._ ” 

I finally manage to rip my eyes from the arch, shifting my soft gaze to Michael’s face. It glows brightly against the light of the sun, shadows from trees dancing across his face as we continue walking. I can’t help but smile, yesterday’s emotional breakdown all but a faded memory. Michael’s mindless rambling keeps my thoughts at bay, pushes my anxieties further down, distracts me from any unwelcomed thoughts. God, I love this boy. 

We finish our walk in the park with Michael transitioning the conversation to the rest of our summer, idealizing the fact that we should actively search for couple opportunities and maybe a few side-jobs for his piano career. Well, he called it a “hobby,” but I still dub it as a career, just because he’s so talented and personal with it. 

The street of shops we’ve walked onto is pretty high-end, so it’s not like we’ll actually be able to buy anything, but I enjoy window-shopping a bit too much. Michael catches me staring at a window to our left, something shiny catching my eye as the sun hits the display. “Do you want to go in?” he asks, tugging my arm lightly. I blink and shrug, pretty indifferent. Honestly, I’m just high on loving Michael right now. I feel intoxicated by his presence, by his fingers in mine, dragging along my palm every time we move. 

He smiles and pulls me to the door of whatever shop this is, pushing it open as a quiet bell dings above us, alerting the management of our arrival. A few people peer into glass jewelry cases, pointing out rings or necklaces that they fancy as attendants gently open them up to pull out the items. I’ve never been a huge fan of any type of jewelry, but that doesn’t mean that some gemstones aren’t incredibly gorgeous to look at.

In fact, when I was in middle school, I was a little bit obsessed with my star sign and my birthstone and horoscopes and everything like that. I slept with crystals on my nightstand, carried a few around in my pocket, and studied my daily horoscope religiously. 

I’m not exactly sure where my obsession had stemmed from, but it ended up giving me a soft spot for shiny gems. 

“Oh wow,” Michael gasps, leading me to a wooden cabinet against the wall. He points to a ring with a bright orange gem gleaming from the center, sparkling in the specialized lights above it. Topaz. “It’s pretty,” I comment quietly, reading the rich and entitled mood of the room and choosing to conform to the normality of the store’s audience. “Topaz.” 

Michael lets a small “ _ooo_ ” escape his parted lips before another ring catches his attention, and then he pulls me to that one. “A diamond,” he hums proudly, and I nod, letting my eyes drift to another ring right next to the topaz one. My jaw drops open as I study it, eyes going dry and all of my attention focusing in on the gem. Michael tries tugging at my arm again, but I’m planted where I stand, eyes never leaving the ring. I can’t exactly place my feelings, but the gemstone reminds me of something that I can’t pinpoint. 

“Jere, you good?” I hear Michael’s faint voice, feeling him sway against me as he follows my gaze. “That’s pretty! Looks like your eyes.” 

And that’s when it hits me.

My chest fills up with a certain sadness as my stare falls from the ring to my feet, and I breathe, trying to alleviate any sadness I may be experiencing from the recollection. 

“Actually, my mom’s,” I admit hesitantly, looking up at Michael. His eyes never leave mine as he leans down to kiss my forehead, soft and sweet. “Well, she had pretty eyes, then. Her son’s are even prettier.” I smirk shallowly as Michael pulls me along, and we continue skimming the jewelry, periodically finding a certain style or color that draws our attention. Michael finds a necklace that he really enjoys the mood of, commenting on how the pink is the exact shade my face used to get when he’d flirt with me. My face is the same shade as he says that. 

Just as we’re about to leave, Michael’s attention is caught by a small plastic sign on a shelf by the door. It says something about free engravings on plated jewelry above a certain price. I can picture doing something like that for Michael for an anniversary some time in the coming years, even if it’s a bit soon for that. 

The relationship is still fairly new, though it seems like we’ve been dating for a while. Maybe it’s just the nature of our relationship, who knows?

———

“These look just like yours!” Michael squeaks as he wiggles his feet excitedly, knuckles pale as he grips onto the bench in whatever shoe store we stumbled upon. An assistant holds the cardboard box next to me, smiling fondly at us as I shake my head. “No, mine were, like, twenty bucks at _Rack Room Shoes_. Those look really expensive, Michael.” 

Michael pouts up at me, bottom lip quivering. “But you look so cute in them. I think you need newer ones,” he comments, then gasps. “We can be matching!” The attendant gives me an amused look, then sets down the shoe box. He points to my shoes and asks what size I wear, a question I deflect because Michael is  _not_ spending any unnecessary money on me. However, Michael sits back and looks at the assistant with a huge grin. “Size ten,” he interjects, and I cross my arms in frustration.

”Michael, this place is expensive,” I hiss as the man walks off to the back of the store. “They have complimentary water containers with _cucumbers_ in it. We don’t have the money to just–“

I stop as his eyes widen, his mouth slightly agape. My voice falters and I blink, the warmth from his expression spreading from my chest to the rest of my limbs. “What?” I urge when he doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me. “What’s that look for?” Michael slumps a bit, swallowing hard. 

“It’s just...” he starts, voice cracking gently. “You said... You said that ‘ _we_ ’ don’t have the money to...” 

With a breathless chuckle, Michael leaps to his feet, throwing his arms around my neck. A confused air surrounds the contact on my part, though the embrace is warm and familiar. I let myself hug Michael back, not sure why he’s so worked up over the fact that I said “we” instead of “you.” 

The attendant comes back with another box in hand, motioning for me to sit down on the bench. Michael stretches his legs as he lets go of me, admiring the saddle oxfords from afar. “They just remind me of you so much. What colors do these come in?” he directs to the assistant, who’s bent over my feet. I feel awkward, mainly because I’d rather be the one to take my shoes and put the nicer ones on. I’m suddenly very self-conscious about the state of my feet. 

“Whiskey and navy, navy and white, red and white, and black and white,” he tells us, the shoes I’m currently sporting being the red and white ones. The man ties my shoelaces with nimble fingers, threading them through the strings as he ties them off. 

He hums thoughtfully and looks to Michael’s navy ones. “Your skin tone and style would be a much better match for these red ones,” the man observes, standing to his feet. “Otherwise, they’re wonderful quality, should last you boys several years. I’ve had mine for about fifteen, though I rarely wear them. I can even give you a discount, maybe fifteen or twenty percent off your entire purchase.” 

Michael extends his arms out to me, and I take his hands reluctantly. God, he _does_ look good in saddle oxfords. I’m even more in love with him than I was before. “Jere,” he whines, the toes of his shoes pressing lightly against mine. I rock back on my heel slightly, a soft grin gracing my face. “Michael, I... I don’t know, I already have a pair, and–“ 

“We’ll take them.” 

I give Michael a look of utter disbelief, trying to add up the projected total in my mind. “Michael,” I huff, but he’s already taking off his shoes, asking the assistant if he can get Michael’s size in red and mine in blue. He disappears once more and leaves me with Michael, untying my shoes idly. 

“I think that it’s a way to remember our trip,” Michael muses, unlacing his own shoes. “Plus, what better couple color combo than red and blue?”

I ignore the romantic intention. “Say that three times fast.” 

We compete over who can say “couple color combo” the fastest as we wait for the attendant to come back, and that’s honestly the best way that I can describe my unpredictable, spontaneous, and romantic relationship with my boyfriend, Michael fucking Mell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i would update more  
> ++ thanks to everyone still reading!! it warms my heart u have no idea


	45. July 11

“Yeah, well, we’re pulling into the neighborhood right now. We’ll see you in a second,” Michael mumbles to his mom, phone wedged between his shoulder and his head as he makes a left turn toward his house. I tap my finger against my knee anxiously, folding the material of my pants as I ball my fists. 

I know that I gave Michael a hard time when he was nervous about meeting my dad, but now I understand.

Michael rolls his eyes and nods, mouthing his mom’s words in a mocking way. I smirk to myself but then remember that I’m supposed to be nervous, looking back at my shaking knees as they knock against each other. It’s just because we’re driving on a bumpy road, right?

“Okay, _Nanay_ ,” Michael groans, raising his eyebrows as he waits for his mom to stop talking. “Yeah, I love you too. _Ingat_.” 

Is that Spanish? It doesn’t sound very Spanish, but I guess I wouldn’t know, since I can barely speak English and my French is pitiful. Michael takes the phone from his ear, blinding pressing at the **END CALL** button on his screen. He sets the phone down between us, in his change drawer, and exhales obnoxiously. “Sorry about that, she doesn’t know when to stop talking,” he chuckles, placing his hand back on the wheel. I admire the way his veins pop slightly as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. God, he’s fucking hot. How did I of all people get the opportunity to date him?

Michael clicks his tongue as I silently admire his forearm, momentarily forgetting that I’m about to have dinner with him and his mom – “ _She says that she’s making you something special for dinner._ ” – and am probably going to make a complete idiot out of myself. 

“Dude, you okay? You look like a sheet of paper,” Michael snorts, casting a concerned sideways glance at me. I blink and then swallow hard, laughing it off. “Y-Yeah, I am. Just nervous, I guess,” I try to force myself to change moods, attention focusing back on my sweaty palms. I wipe them against my jeans and hum quietly, and Michael moves his hand to mine. “Hey, she’s going to _love_ you, Jere,” he assures me, voice convincing and warm. 

I feel my heart melt around his words, my shoulders slouching forward. He says that, but I seriously doubt that she’ll like me that much. I look pretty dumb right now, clad in red jeans, a polo shirt, and currently a pullover, because Michael insists on keeping the air at full blast. Of course I’m wearing my new saddle oxfords, as is Michael. We look like the cheesiest old couple, about to go bowling or some weird shit. 

“You mean that?”

Michael nods and grins before slowing the car, making a hard right into his driveway. A small, light blue _Prius_ is parked neatly at the garage door, leaving just enough room for Michael’s beside it. Michael pulls into the small space and turns off the car, pocketing his keys and swinging his legs out the door. “Seriously, _cielito_ , don’t worry. It’s just me and my mom. I’m gonna be there the whole time,” he comforts me, squeezing my hand before sliding out of the car. 

I huff to myself and hesitate before opening the door, opting to leave my suitcase in the trunk instead of lugging it in. My mind races with infinite circumstances in which I’d embarrass myself if I brought the luggage with me, so maybe it’s best that I leave it behind. Howevever, Michael grabs his out of the back, grunting loudly. “God, did we bring someone else home?” he grumbles, letting the bag slam to the ground. I giggle nervously and shrug, shutting the trunk after him. We silently walk up the driveway, shoes scraping against the cement and bag rolling along quietly. 

I’m suddenly too anxious to talk. 

What if his mom doesn’t like me? Hell, his dad already hates me and doesn’t want me in their house. This just feels wrong. This feels cursed. I feel like something bad is bound to happen, and that the consequences are going to haunt me forever. Maybe Michael will see how awful I am with adults and end up breaking up with me. If I’m not good with his mom, then I’m not good with him. If his mom doesn’t like me, that’s two out of three people in his household that would despise me. 

God, shut up. Can I not stop thinking for, like, two fucking seconds?

I feel Michael’s free hand snake around my waist. “Jeremy,” he trills, voice like honey. I choke on a content sigh, clearing my throat. “I’m fine,” I insist, bringing a hand up to knock on the door. Michael quickly moves to swat my hand away, rather reaching for his keys and unlocking the door himself. 

“She’s cooking, and if you interrupt her when she’s in the kitchen...” Michael sings in a warning tone, pushing the door open and lifting his bag over the doorway’s trim. “ _Nay_ , I’m here with Jeremy!”

My words get caught in my throat as a shorter woman at the oven turns her head quickly, a deer-caught-in-headlights look gracing her tan face. She has short, curly hair that’s pinned behind her ear, curling around the lobe gently. Michael looks _just_ like her. She gasps excitedly as Michael closed the door behind us, setting down a spatula and wiping her hands on her apron as she shuffles across the floor towards us. “Micah!  _Susmaryosep_ , you must be Jeremy!” she cries breathlessly, scooping my hands up with her own. She scrutinizes them, tracing my palm lines with her thumbs. “Soft hands!”

Michael snored behind me, setting down his suitcase. His mom drops my arms and I let them fall limply to my sides, watching as she throws her arms around Michael’s neck, pulling him down to kiss his cheeks. “ _Na-miss kita!_ You didn’t call me enough. I barely knew where you were at!” 

He rolls his eyes and removes his mother’s hands from his neck, sighing. “Oh, don’t pretend like you suddenly care just ‘cause Jere’s here. What’re you making?” Michael mutters, leaving his bag by the floor as he wanders into the kitchen. I awkwardly wonder whether or not I should follow, but Mrs. Mell tugs ar my sleeve and pulls me to face her. “So, Michael’s new boyfriend,” she breathes, accent thick and endearing. I swallow hard and chuckle nervously, nodding. “Y-Yeah, seems that way. You, uh, have a lovely home, Mrs. Mell,” I try, and she screws up her nose at me.

“Please, just call me Rosa! Rosamie, it’s short for Rosamie. Oh, _guwapo ka_! I adore you, come here!” She embraces me warmly, face pressed gently against my pullover. I nervously put my arms around her shoulders, sighing into her hug. She’s actually incredibly sweet, which is a wonderful surprise. I was so nervous, but she’s making me feel incredibly comfortable and welcomed. 

Michael laughs lightly from the kitchen, a spoon hanging idly from his mouth as he watches us. “Ma, leave him be. You’re overwhelming him,” he jokes, and Michael’s mom pulls away from me, turning back to the kitchen. She cries out and stamps to Michael, yanking the spoon from his mouth angrily. She swats at his chest with it, causing him to chuckle and push her away. “ _Ulol_ , I hope he wasn’t this much of a burden while you boys were in Philly!” she hisses, and Michael sticks his tongue out as he rejoins me by the door. 

I’m not as nervous anymore. 

“I wasn’t. Look, I bought us matching shoes,” Michael buzzes proudly, gesturing to our feet proudly. Mrs. Mell – I mean, Rosa – clucks irritably and turns around, brows furrowed. “This is why you’re poor!” she replies, but after catching a glimpse of our matching shoes, she softens her glare. “Huh, _kyut_. Leave them at the door.” 

Michael nods and taps his foot against mine, then bending down to untie his shoes and place them by the front door on a small metal rack. I follow Michael’s movements, quickly untying my own and laying them beside his shoes. As I finish and stand back up, back cracking slightly, he grabs the crook of my arm and dragging me into his kitchen. “Stop being so shy, she’s not gonna bite you,” he teases, and I feel myself getting red. 

Rosa hums thoughtfully as she moves a pan off of a burner, and I suddenly note the wonderfully intoxicating scent wafting from whatever she made for dinner. “ _Arroz caldo_ , Micah’s favorite,” she tells me, grinning ear-to-ear. Her eyes crinkle gently at the corners, which reminds me of the way my dad used to smile. I should probably call him at some point to let him know that I’m okay. 

“What is it?” I ask curiously, too aware of the way Michael’s hand rests against my own. Mrs. Mell dishes out the food onto three plates, steaming piles of yellow goop. She grabs an onion and chops it hurriedly against her cutting board, humming to herself as she works. “Creamy rice. It’s the macaroni of Filipino culture, _lekat_. It’ll make you feel more comfortable in our house,” she promises, sprinkling onion bits over the dishes before sliding two across the kitchen island to Michael and I. 

Michael plants a soft kiss on my cheek before padding to his utensil drawer, retrieving three spoons. 

The only reason that I’m even here at dinner with Michael is because his dad has some sort of company dinner tonight, whatever that means. He’s not supposed to be home until around nine, so I have nothing to worry about, according to Michael. 

“Jeremy, where do you go to school?” Mrs. Mell asks as she scoops up a bite of her rice, and I follow suite, shoveling the food into my mouth carefully. Shit, this is really good. I moan around my food embarrassingly, blushing as I realize how obscene that noise was. Michael gives me an amused but suggestive glance as he eats a bite of his own food. I quickly recover and wipe my mouth on the back of my sleeve. “Middle Borough High School,” I say dryly, blinking away any bad memories I may have of the school. I don’t need to worry about it right now. 

Michael makes an “ _mph_ ” sound as he swallows, holding up a finger. “He’s in a theatre group. He’s so talented,” he tells his mom, and I grow even redder. How can he tell? He’s literally never seen me perform. 

However, Rosa gasps, throwing her hands over her mouth in surprise. “ _Hindi!_ For real? You must be famous!” Michael bursts out laughing as I open my mouth to reply, chest aching with embarrassment. “N-No, no,” I rush, trying to speak over Michael’s laughter. “I’m not famous at all, no.” 

She shakes her head and holds up her spoon, clicking her tongue at me. “Don’t wanna hear it. Michael’s lucky he has you, _totoy_. All he’s good for is piano and using up all his gas money on bowling shoes,” Mrs. Mell teases, and Michael pouts in feigned offense. “Aw, _Nanay_ , you don’t mean that!” he counters, pointing his fork at her. I cautiously take another bite, though I can comfortably chuckle at their bickering. This seems familiar. 

“I do mean that. _Mahal kita_ , but you’re absolutely intolerable,” she states, attempting to hide her smile. It’s so endearing, really, and their back-and-forth is actually heart-warming. My only wish is that I could understand whatever language she’s speaking. Didn’t Michael tell me she was Filipino, at some point? 

Michael takes another bite of food, clearing his plate. “Jeremy can sing really well, too. Don’t let him tell you he can’t,” he tells his mom, walking around me with his plate to the sink. I open my mouth to protest, but Rosa quickly claps, setting down her fork and shoving her plate aside to lean forward. “You can? Oh, _lukat_ , sing a song!” 

I groan and shoot Michael a dirty look. “N-No, I really shouldn’t–“

”Please!”

”I can’t sing, Michael’s–“

”Jeremy, sing for my mom.” 

“No, I really–“ 

All of our heads whip to the door as we hear the knob turn, too stunned to move or attempt to hide me. I’m not thinking straight as a tall man appears in the doorway, sighing tiredly and slipping off his blazer. “ _Dios mío_ , someone pour me a glass of wine. Everyone I work with is an idiot. Michael’s home?” the man groans, rubbing his eyes as he turns around to to shut the door.

I’m glued to where I’m standing, eyes wide and legs trembling, barely able to keep me standing. If I thought that Michael looked just like his mom, that’d be an understatement in comparison to how much Michael resembles his dad. They have the same hair, the same stature, the same–

The man turns back around with a lazy grin, but his eyes fall to me and that grin disappears instantly. Fuck. 

“ _Mahal!_ ” Rosa finally manages, rounding the kitchen island with open arms. ”L-Long day?” Mr. Mell doesn’t even acknowledge her, but rather continues to focus his glare on me. I try to swallow, but every muscle in my body has somehow managed to stop working simultaneously. At the kitchen, Michael clears his throat, and his dad’s attention shifts from me to him. 

“Micah, you didn’t tell me you were having a – _friend_ – over for dinner,” Michael’s dad states curtly, through gritted teeth. Friend? God, _please_ let Michael lie and say that I’m just a friend. 

I slowly turn to Michael, eyes literally begging him to keep his mouth shut. However, Michael’s engaged in a glare-off with his dad, brows furrowed. “You were going to be at a company dinner. How come you’re home?” he deflects, turning back to move his plate from the sink to the dishwasher. Mr. Mell hesitates, slipping his shoes off before taking a couple of steps forward. Mrs. Mell holds tight to his shirt sleeve, pulling at it as a warning. 

“Got cancelled,” Mr. Mell responds coldly, looking at me again. “Care to introduce me?” 

Michael sighs and turns around, shuffling to my side and setting a hand against the island, leaning tiredly. “Dad, Jeremy, Jeremy, Dad. Sorry you had to meet this way,” he says begrudgingly, and something like hurt flashes in his dad’s eyes. I can’t imagine how awkward this must be for Mr. Mell, but I decide, against every single instinct I possess screaming at me not to, to start a conversation. 

“H-Hi, Mr. Mell. Your house is gorgeous, and I’ve, uh, heard nothing but good things about you.” 

Mr. Mell’s lips pull tightly against his features, a thin line. I feel my stomach tie itself into a knot, and I suddenly feel like I might just throw up. “Jeremy, as in Michael’s, uh, boyfriend?” he asks reluctantly, unsurely. I nod softly, but Michael grabs me around my waist and pulls me closer with intentional force. “Yeah, my boyfriend.” 

His dad sighs and rocks back on his heels, looking torn. “Right,” Mr. Mell chokes, humming to himself. “Well, it’s pretty late, and I think you should get him home.” 

Mrs. Mell groans and pulls at his arm. “Dear, Jeremy’s lovely. I think that if you just got to know him–“

”No, he’s right,” Michael interrupts heatedly, surprising all three of us. Jesus Christ, this is so awkward. I wish that the earth under me would crack into two so that I could disappear from this encounter. “I should get Jere home. I’m, uh, staying at his place, anyways.” He is? I look at him, puzzled, and he returns my gaze with a soft, pleading one. 

He is. 

Mr. Mell opens his mouth to protest, but Michael’s already dragging me past him and to the door, grabbing both of our pairs of shoes with one hand and letting go of my hand to open the door. As an afterthought, I pick up Michael’s suitcase, dragging it back out the door. Without another word, we slip into the night, air hotter than it usually is.

I wish that Mr. Mell didn’t hate me, because it’s clearly stressing Michael out. “Michael, I–“ 

Michael shakes his head quickly, urging me not to speak. “Don’t talk.” 

With that, we get back into Michael’s car, the last half an hour or so a rushed blur, not making much sense to my already-distracted mind. He tosses me my shoes before sliding on his own, not bothering to re-tie them as he shoves his keys into the car’s ignition. I slide my own on as he turns on his headlights, then his brights, putting the car in reverse and rolling back down the driveway.

He’s upset, and I wish I knew how to do something about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i try not to write tagalog dialogue bc idk the language. 29287 search tabs and seven videos later, this is all i have to show for,, sorry 
> 
> translations:  
> nanay - mom, mommy  
> ingat- take care,, sorta just an informal good-bye  
> susmaryosep - it’s a combo of jesus, mary, and joseph tbh  
> na-miss kita - i missed you  
> guwapo ka - you’re handsome  
> ulol - it’s like crazy person,, ig it originally referred to,, like,, rabid dogs haha  
> kyut - cute  
> lekat - just a petname ig,, like an annoyed but fond mom’s lovey way of saying “you little shit”  
> hindi - no  
> totoy - ahh idk like,, mainly just a way to refer to a younger boy or girl, but it’s mrs mell sooo :))?? fond usage btw  
> mahal kita - i love you (cant have a boyf riends fic without this one,, huh??)  
> mahal - love or dear 
> 
> dios mío - oh my god (my god,, alternatively) 
> 
> oh wow that was too much,, sorry if these translations are wrong! i really did try,, but this is why i don’t write tagalog michael ahh never again - thanks for reading though!!


	46. July 12 - Part 1

Michael hasn’t said a single word to me since telling me not to talk. When we came through my front door at half past seven with Michael’s suitcase in tow, my dad gave us questioning looks and asked how our trip was. 

“Sorry,” was all Michael said. 

I gave my dad a sad look and shrugged, to which he sighed and nodded, returning to his crease in the living room couch. Michael and his suitcase retreated to my room, and then he locked himself in the bathroom for two hours. I heard the water running for the majority of that time, but all I could do was sit against the outside of the locked door with my head pressed against the wood. 

It was a very weird experience, especially since Michael has never been blatantly rude or reclusive like this. I wish that I knew how to help him, but when I heard the water shut off, I had quickly scrambled back to my room as to not appear creepy or stalkerish. 

How did he dry off? What did he wash himself with? 

I look at the time on my phone with a sigh, feeling Michael’s warm body pressed against my side. He’s breathing softly, but in the dimming moonlight from my window, I can see that his eyes are still open. 

**12:33 AM**

From time to time, I can hear Michael sniffle or choke on a sob, and each time, it tears my heart straight from my chest. Listening to Michael in such emotional pain is torture, especially since I can’t do anything about it. Honestly, I don’t even know exactly why he’s so upset. The only thing that I can think of is that his dad told him to take me home. He wasn’t rude about it, and he wasn’t necessarily rude to me, either. 

Maybe it’s something deeper than that, I guess. 

With an inaudible sigh, I continue scrolling through my _Facebook_ , dully noting Aunt Linda’s picture post of her ever-growing _Beanie Baby_ collection, some politically-based article my racist grandfather shared to his timeline, and an ad for some new car lot opening in my area. Jesus Christ, this is boring.

I groan inwardly and set my phone down in my lap, screen against my blanket, and look over at Michael. His body is curled up in a fetal position, facing away from me, shaking every so often when he trembles with a steadying sob. This has been going on ever since he trudged back into the bedroom, pajamas on and dirty clothes in hand. All he did was set them down and fall onto the bed, wrapping himself in part of my comforter as I watched him with concern. I had left for about fifteen minutes to shower and to brush my teeth, but other than that, I’ve been laying here with him, bodies flush, silence hanging between us. 

Chancing another glance at Michael, I notice that his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, tear streaks lining his cheeks. Against my better sense of being, I decide to say something, though I’m not even sure what that something will be. Making people feel better isn’t really my forte. 

“Hey, uh,” I start, voice hoarse from lack of use. Michael doesn’t stir, but rather starts shaking even harder. My mind goes blank, so I guess what I’m about to say will just be me talking to talk. “You remember when I went to your show at the, uh, the art museum?” 

Silence. 

I swallow hard and nod to myself, urging myself to continue. “I’ve never felt m-more safe. More, uh, alive, I guess. I stood in the same place for hours, just watching you play and listening to how absolutely breathtaking your playing was. How you were quiet and then loud, but loud and then quiet... I remember how you looked at me and smiled, and I remember thinking, like, ‘ _Wow, this boy is gorgeous._ ’ Even though I was convinced I was straight. You just looked so happy and sure and, I don’t know. It was just b-beautiful.

”But, uh, fast-forward a few weeks. I went to your competition and we, uh, y’know, we kissed? I remember being r-really confused and not sure where I stood with you. I can remember wishing that those kisses were real, that they meant something–“ 

“They did.” 

I let my jaw hang open for a few seconds, reveling in Michael’s raspy voice. He sounds sick, like he hasn’t used his voice his entire life. Wait, what did he even say? “Sorry, what?” I ask for clarification, and Michael sniffles before turning over to face me. His features are torn and broken, his eyes puffy from crying for hours and his face a washed red from trying not to cry so loud. “I said that, that they d-did mean something,” he chokes, fishing a hand out of his blanket and reaching for my own. 

Without hesitation, I scoop his up, threading my fingers through his. I’ve never seen someone so upset, but I guess different people have different reactions to these kinds of things. 

“W-Well, I didn’t mean to insinuate that they didn’t...” I mumble, but Michael shakes his head, rubbing his eyes against the arm of his sweater. 

“No, it’s fine,” he replies thickly, sighing shakily. “Every kiss we’ve shared, Jeremy. Every trip we’ve taken together. Every time we sat down to eat. Every time you came to _Tastyland_ and got a milkshake... God, _all_ of that, Jere. It’s a-all meant something. This isn’t just some big phase or mistake.” 

My chest starts aching again. Is he directing all of this at me? “Michael, I... Yeah, no, I know, but–“ 

“No, no, I know that _you_ know,” he interjects, hand trembling in my own. I try to tighten my grip as an attempt to steady his hand. “I know that you know.” He sniffles again and moves his head so that it’s in my lap, burrowed between my legs with his hair pressed against my shirt. He lets go of my hand and starts crying again, tears staining the fabric of my sweatpants as they fall. My hands awkwardly hover above his figure for a few seconds before finding shelter in his hair and against the back of his neck. 

I shush him gently, swallowing hard and ignoring the hot tears that boil my waterline. This is like one of my breakdowns, isn’t it? Michael isn’t sobbing hysterically or breathing at an ungodly rate or anything. He’s not shaking because he can’t control his thoughts or anything, but rather because he’s crying and upset. Rational emotional breakdown. 

Rather than saying anything, I keep my hand in Michael’s hair, threading my fingers through the locks gently with one hand and rubbing small circles against the back of his neck, skin burning. 

Rational emotional breakdown.

From what he said, I think that he’s upset that his dad just doesn’t understand his sexuality. Of course I never had that problem with anyone, but seeing how much it hurts Michael really hits hard. I get scared that maybe he’s not so happy with the fact that he’s gay, but he’s given me no reason to think that, honestly. Michael seems really content and comfortable with who he is, which inspires me to work on my self-esteem more often. 

Well, as much as I can, at least. 

Michael’s crying starts to die down after several minutes, morphing into inconsistent hiccups and sniffles. I just keep petting his hair, massaging his neck, and staring down at his body, wrapped in a blanket like it’s a swaddle. 

God, homophobia fucking sucks. 

———

We wake up just how we fell asleep, Michael in my lap and me leaning uncomfortablely against my pillow, which is wedged between my aching body and the headboard. Jesus Christ, my back hurts. I move my neck to look out the window, hissing in pain. My neck hurts even worse. 

I let my eyes wander to Michael’s sleeping face, which is facing my ceiling. His mouth is opened wide, drool gurgling at the back of his throat as he breathes deeply.

Gross, I love this boy. 

I want to get out of bed to stretch out my back, but Michael looks so comfortable laying in my lap, eyes crusty, eyebrow hairs in every direction, his breath absolutely awful. Fuck, he’s so cute. Instead of disturbing his sleeping, I guess I can admire his gorgeous features. 

I move my hand from under his head gently, lightly tracing his jawline as my thumb finds the corner of his mouth. His skin is so clear, and the light from outside that casts shadows from my desk and my bedpost dances across his face as he moves under my hand. I smile to myself and sigh contently, happy that he decided to stay the night. Who knows what he would’ve done had he stayed at his own house? I don’t want to think about it. 

Michael’s eyelashes are so long and even, and I’m sure that if Chloe ever saw Michael, she’d kill for them. His nose is a bit wide when he breathes out, but nothing too big or oddly-shaped. I trace a scar on his nose, careful not to wake him. I wonder where that came from. I gently straighten his eyebrows, realigning the hairs and nodding at my work. Is it possible to love someone this much? Even when he’s snoring and sleeping and drooling, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of adoration for him. 

Suddenly, I feel a sneeze surface without warning, racking my entire body as I choke on it. Michael groans tiredly and closes his mouth, swallowing. He squeezes his eyes shut, yawning and turning over in my lap, face pressed against my leg. 

“Michael?” I ask in a whisper, and he hums irritably. “ _Pakyu_ , I’m sleeping,” he whines against the fabric of my pajama pants, shaking his head slowly. I note how close he is to my crotch, and I’m surprised that I didn’t wake up with morning wood or something like that. Well fuck, I guess it’s not too late. I inhale sharply as I wriggle out from under Michael, lifting his head and shoving my pillow under it so that I can make a quick morning trip to the bathroom. 

He pouts loudly from the bed as I leave my room, sniffling. “Come back!” Michael groans, throwing a hand up and reaching for me. I smile and chuckle, but slip into my bathroom before things get awkward. 

I’m pretty sure that Michael’s been speaking a lot more... whatever language him and his mom had been talking in yesterday. Maybe that’s just because he was around her, but it makes me wonder if he’s fluent in three different languages. His dad’s Ecuadorian, his mom’s Filipino, and they live in the United States as immigrants. Maybe he’s not exactly fluent, but hell, I wouldn't know. My French is dismal, and I can hardly manage English most days. Whatever, I find it incredibly attractive when Michael speaks languages other than English. Part of me wonders if he’d ever teach me bits and pieces.

My other, more sexually-inclined morning thoughts wonder if he’d use certain words in bed, but that’s not important. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda just filler and aftermath,, sorry!! 
> 
> translation  
> pakyu - to my understanding, it’s fuck you 
> 
> thanks for still reading!! sorry it’s so long


	47. July 12 - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh i got bored (***) 
> 
> i’ll summarize if you don’t wanna read a small gay!

Michael slides his phone to me from across the table, eyes tired and mouth full of cereal. I look up from my own bowl of _Cinnamon Toast Crunch_ (“ _God, degenerate, that’s the worst kind of cereal._ ”) and to his glowing screen, which is opened to a text conversation between him and Mr. Johnson. 

 **Michael:** _hey mr. j, seems like my summer full of piano adventures has been cut short. i can come back to work at tastyland if you haven’t found anyone yet, though i understand if you have. there’s not much time before school starts, but i can come in pretty much whenever! let me know_

 **mr. a family company**  (“ _You’re such a fucking dork, Michael_.”) **:** _Michael, of course! Travis and I have been switching shifts since you resigned, but I’ll gladly have you back, even if it’s just for half the month. I’ll remain flexible with your hours as usual, and I recently purchased a small bench for behind the stand. Your friend Jeremy can sit out there without getting burnt. Let me know when you can get started, and I’ll make sure to get your paperwork back out!_

I swallow what’s in my mouth and set my spoon down, picking up his phone to read the messages over again. Did I read that right? Michael wants to work at _Tastyland_ again? Shit, am I _that_ boring?

”Uh, that’s good,” I mumble, setting the phone back down and sliding it to Michael irritably. I shouldn’t be getting upset over something so small, yet here I am. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm by it; we don’t have an endless supply of money for gas and eating out and dates, so I understand why he needs the money, I guess. Plus, what did I expect him to do for the rest of his summer? Stay in the house with me? Take me out of town again? I doubt he’ll want to go back to his house any time soon, so that’s off the table. Maybe he’ll be staying over more often. 

Michael furrows his brow at me and drops his spoon back into his bowl, stretching both of his arms out and taking my hands in his own. My eyes travel from our hands to his smiling features, soft and welcoming. “Flexible hours. Bench for you. Money for dates. It’s not that bad. I can teach you how to make every flavor, and you can, like, keep me company all day,” he points out, and I let myself sigh happily. 

He’s not wrong. 

“Aren’t you tired of me?” I ask hoarsely, frowning slightly. However, he chuckles and shakes his head, morning hair bouncing and sticking up in every direction. “Absolutely not,” Michael replies breathlessly, rubbing the backs of my hands with his thumbs. “If anything, you should be tired of me. _Carajo_ , I pulled you around Philadelphia and Pittsburgh for the longest, I flirted with you relentlessly for several weeks before I even got super serious, and you’re more involved with my piano career than I am. Tired of you? No way.” 

I chuckle and blush, dropping my head a bit. God, I love it when he showers me with compliments. Especially in other languages. 

“C-Can you tell me what that meant?” I prompt, taking my hands back so that I can finish my cereal. I love Michael, but _Cinnamon Toast Crunch_ is pretty fucking close. Michael blinks and raises his eyebrows. “Tell you what what means?” 

Oh, maybe he didn’t say anything in Spanish or whatever and I just misheard his English. “Nothing, nothing. Thought you said something in, like, another language,” I mutter, taking another bite of cereal. He stares at his bowl in concentration, then breathes an “ _oh_ ” as he remembers. “ _Carajo_ , right?” he asks, and I nod. “Yeah, that. I think.” 

Michael hums and takes a sip of the coffee he made himself, though again, it’s mostly creamer. “I don’t really know. My dad just says it when he’s, like, mad and stuff. Or surprised. I should probably actually look up what half the shit I say means, honestly,” he tells me, and I snort unattractively. “Huh, okay. So, uh, when are you gonna start working at _Tastyland_ again?” I reply, waving my spoon in his direction. Michael clicks his tongue and sets his chin on the back of his hand thoughtfully. 

“Maybe tomorrow. It’s only Wednesday, so it’s not like I’ll have to work the entire week. Just get back in the rhythm again, I guess,” he replies distantly, nodding. “Yeah. I was gonna drop by the art museum and let them know that I’m free whenever. I play during the summer and the school year, so yeah.” 

I hum around a mouthful of cereal, the only thing left in my bowl sugary milk. I guess that sounds okay, though I’d rather Michael not have to work every day. “Sounds good,” I note, picking up my bowl and downing the milk. I set down the bowl when I’m done and find Michael grinning at me like an idiot, and I start blushing feverishly. I try not to let my mind wander to the disgustingly dirty thoughts that helped me through my – _issue_ – this morning, choosing to scoot my chair back and go rinse out my dish instead. 

“Hey,” Michael calls, and I turn back around as I let warm water wash over my hands and my bowl. 

“I love you.” 

I smile softly and feel my ears grow hot, then turn back around to turn the water off. “How many languages can you say that in?” I ask curiously, and when I turn on my heel, I see that Michael’s right behind me, bowl in hand. I lean against the counter of the sink, the ledge digging uncomfortably into my back as my hands find a steady place to rest. Michael sighs thoughtfully and stretches around me to set his bowl down, then moves back and places his hands on either side of my hips, thumbing the elastic band of my pajama pants. 

The window above the sink streams light that bathes Michael’s face in a soft orange color, his eyes dark despite the sun. “A few,” he hums, grip tightening on my hips. Fuck, he’s hot. 

“Y-Yeah?” I choke, swallowing hard. I just wanted to hear him talk, but this works too, I guess. 

“Mhm,” Michael furthers, eyes half-lidded now. How long has it been since we’ve, like, made out? We kiss a lot, but I think that may have been in the back of his car. “For one, there’s ‘ _te amo_ ,’” he starts, a thumb tracing my hipbone with force that’s too much for me this early.

I bite my inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood, painfully aware of the way Michael reacts to my reaction. His grin softens, his face warms, and his other hand plays with the hem of my shirt. “That’s, uh, Spanish,” I manage, and he chuckles lightly. Under any other circumstances, the laugh would sound dorky. 

“That’s right,” he cooes, shifting to kiss my forehead. God, he’s an absolute tease. “‘ _Mahal kita_ ’ is Tagalog, and that’s my mom’s first language.” Oh, _Tagalog_. I nod and inhale sharply as Michael suddenly digs his thumb into my hip even harder, forcing my into the counter. It doesn’t feel great, but seeing Michael so dominant is an actual blessing. I didn’t think that he’d get over his dad so quickly, but maybe he’s just trying to replace those feelings with these. 

And that’s my job to help him with. 

“There’s one more language, though,” Michael interrupts my thoughts, voice deep and suggestive. My eyes flash back up to his, and I melt under his gaze. 

“And wh-what’s that?” I peep, to which Michael leans down and presses his lips against mine, hot and desperate for attention. I moan in surprise softly, trying to stifle it by kissing Michael back, toying with my submissive nature momentarily. Yeah, no, I don’t like taking charge. This isn’t fun. Michael notices when I stop trying to fight for dominance in our kiss, because he takes the opportunity to immediately snake his tongue into my mouth, breathing gently. Gross, we taste like cereal. 

Whatever, this is pretty hot anyways. 

I close my mouth slightly around his tongue, and I’m still not all that great at kissing. I just try to do what feels right and what makes Michael feel good, which I can dictate by how much pressure he’s applying to my hip with his thumb. Michael pulls back for a split second before reconnecting our lips, running his tongue along my lower lip and pressing back against me. 

I love kissing Michael, how did I ever think I was straight? 

With another kiss, Michael pulls away and sighs, moving around me to rinse out his bowl and put it in the dishwasher. I blink and silently wish that he would keep kissing me, but he probably got bored. 

“Did I do it wrong or something?” I ask nervously, moving one of my hands to the area where Michael was digging his thumb into my skin. It’s sore, and it’ll probably leave a small mark, but that’s kind of hot, isn’t it? I turn on my socks to face Michael, leaning against the counter and looking up at him nervously. He scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, turning off the faucet. “No, no, absolutely not,” Michael assures me, drying his hands off on his shirt before sighing. “Just thinkin’.”

I smile and exhale, relieved. “Oh, good. That’s good. What’re you thinking about?” I return, bringing a hand up to his cheek and running my thumb along his jawline. He grabs my arm and holds it gently, squeezing slightly. I think he might be blushing. “N-Nothing,” Michael chuckles, letting go of my arm. I let my hand fall to his shoulder, instead letting my fingers tap against his collarbone through his shirt. 

“Really, Micah,” I pout, lower lip quivering. Michael makes a gutteral sound, like a growl, and connects our lips again, this time with more urgency. I smile and kiss him back, pulling him out of the kitchen, down the hall, and to my room. We collapse onto my mattress, Michael pinning me by my shoulders against the comforter as I move a leg up to his chest, making sure he doesn’t get any ideas this early. Wait, what time even is it? Doesn’t matter. 

Michael continues working at my mouth, occasionally breaking away to move his head to the other side or to kiss the corners of my lips. My hands rest idly against the back of his neck, fingertips dragging through the shorter hair above the nape of his neck.

Kissing isn’t enough. 

Hesitantly, I move my bent leg from under him, instead hooking it around his lower back and pulling him closer. He hums against my lips, moving his hand from my shoulder to my cheek, palm against the hollows of my cheeks and fingers brushing against the hair behind my ear. I can’t feel anything except for the vibrant electricity radiating from our mouths, warming my entire body and shutting off my thoughts. All I can feel is Michael’s lips against mine, pulling at my bottom lip, sucking on my tongue, making me shudder in the best way possible. 

Michael pulls back and moves down a bit, mouth attached to my neck as he sucks hickies into the soft skin. I moan slightly and hook my other leg around the back of his knees, shaking a bit. All of this kissing is going to lead somewhere if we’re not careful. 

Suddenly, my phone starts ringing from the bedside table, vibrating against the nightstand as it plays a loud, obnoxious ringtone. I groan and move one of my hands to shut it off, but Michael sits back momentarily, breathless.

“Answer it.” 

I blink slowly and swallow his words, incredibly turned on by the assertive way he just told me to pick up my phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, I reach for my phone, reading the Caller ID. Michael’s mouth his back at my neck, hot and wet against marks he’s already made on the skin. Christine. 

“Hello?” I ask into the phone, one of my hands tangled in Michael’s hair. Christine sounds like she’s out of breath on the other end, panting wildly. “J-Je-re-my,” she sputters, whistling. Is she running or something? “H-Hey! Just che-ck-ing up on y-ou-ou!” I hear a soft buzz in the background, followed by a steady stamping. I wish I could focus on this conversation, but Michael’s hand is dangerously close to my dick, and it’s making me uncomfortable. I mean, like, I’m on the phone, and he’s being incredibly risqué right now. 

It’s hot as fuck. 

I suck in softly as I feel Michael’s hand brush against my crotch, my only defense against his hand my thin sweatpants. Why did I go to bed without my underwear on? I furrow my brow at him, but Michael looks up with that clueless look on his face and I can’t stay mad at him. 

***

“I’m f-fine,” I manage, choking on a gasp as Michael definitely starts palming me through my bottoms. _Fuck_. “What, uh, what are you up to, Chris?” 

Michael shushes me from his spot between my legs, palm jerking back and forth at my member at a steady pace. I almost let a moan slip from my parted lips, but Michael throws a hand up to my mouth to cover it. Instead, a muffled cry comes from my mouth as my knees shift up to the sides of his face. 

“Exercising. Running on a tre-eadmill! Hold o-on,” Christine puffs, and I hear a soft beeping noise as the humming dies down, the beating noise slowing. Christine pants loudly and sniffles, breathing hard. 

Michael won’t let up. 

“Sorry, okay, what’s up?” she asks after steadying her breathing, which I’m not able to do. My very apparently boner is now creating a weird tent in my sweatpants, which seems to make Michael proud of his work, since he’s gleaming as he continues, staring up at me hotly. 

I moan again, sounds muffled by his hand. Jesus Christ, Michael will be the death of me. I move my hand from Michael’s hair to his arm, adjusting his fingers so that I can reply. “J-Just, uh, eating breakfast,” I reply quickly, trying not to raise suspicion. I look to Michael momentarily as he grins, nodding. “Good boy,” he cooes just above a hum, and I have to bite my lip as I throw my head back in frustration. Thank God my dad’s not working from home today. 

“Must be some good breakfast,” Christine chuckles in disbelief, sighing. “How’s Michael?” 

“Go- _ood_.” 

Michael decides that palming isn’t enough, because his hand is snaking past my waistband and around my member, jacking me off just outside my sweatpants. An obscene noise gets stuck in my throat, causing me to sound like a choking pelican or something. Michael snickers as I blush madly, trying to continue the normal conversation Christine’s having with me.

“Okay, well, we’re all going out to lunch today. Well, not Jake, because he’s at some leadership thing out of town. Rich is broken and it’s only been two days. We really miss you, so you should come with us,” she reprimands, indirectly accusing me of being gone for so long. 

I whimper quietly as Michael picks up speed, his own breath coming hard and irregularly. The sounds alone are enough to–

“Fine, but, uh, ah, _God_ , Michael’s here, so is it okay if he c-comes?” I barely manage to get out, my hand shooting to Michael’s hair as I feel a wave of warmth rush over my body, my toes curling and my fingers digging into Michael’s scalp as I tip over the edge, bucking for more friction. 

Christine gasps and squeals, the sound loud enough to mask the moans and heavy breathing from my end. I finish in Michael’s hand, some on his face, which is fucking hot, with a shrill but guttural groan, and Michael’s innocent but hungry expression tells me that he’s probably pretty fucking horny after that. “Of course!” Christine cries into my ear, causing me to wince as I fall back against the bed, trying not to breathe too hard. “Chloe and Jenna are probably dying to meet him. Fuck, I know I am! I’m your _best friend_ and you won’t even introduce _me_. Peace! I’ll text you details.” 

***

With that, the line goes blank, and I let the phone fall out of my hand and down next to my head, watching as Michael wipes his hand off on his shirt. “God, gross,” I grumble, upset that he almost blew my fucking cover. 

Michael chuckles dangerously and crawls back over me, mouth hanging open. “Who knew that Jeremy Heere likes to be called a ‘good boy,’ huh? Fuck, the kid might just have a daddy kink,” he jokes, and I turn an even darker shade of red. God, I’d have nearly any kink if it involved Michael. _Nearly_ any kink. When I don’t reply, Michael cracks up, falling on top of me and burrowing his head in my neck. He’s probably getting dried cum on my shirt, but it’s not like it’s never happened before. 

“Shut up,” I hiss, but I bring my hands to the back of Michael’s neck anyways, fingers tapping lightly. “We’re going out to lunch with my friends. Don’t bully me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> christine invites jere and michael out to lunch with her, brooke, jenna, chloe, and rich (jake’s at a leadership camp) 
> 
> sorry for the filler!!
> 
> ++ sidenote!! carajo is like ‘damn’ or ‘dang,’ and it’s p commonly used in ecuador


	48. July 12 - Part 3

Michael isn’t that nervous about meeting my friend group, which I find surprising. He seems fairly easy-going with kids our age, and just in general, so of course I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s happy with who he is, so kudos to him. 

“So, _Dv8_? How did they know it’s my favorite?” Michael asks as we walk to the café, hand-in-hand while the sun beats down on the backs of our necks. Fuck, it’s way too hot to be wearing anything more than a t-shirt and boxers. I chuckle and swing our arms aimlessly, distracted by a dog walking by us. The owner sees my face light up and agrees to let me pet it, so I let go of Michael’s hand and squat down go cup the dog’s face. It’s very fluffy, its fur curly and brown. I don’t know, it might just be the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. “God, I love it,” I mumble, kissing the top of the dog’s head. I probably look weird as fuck, but I love dogs. 

“His name’s Blue,” the owner says with a laugh, tugging lightly at his leash. I coo at the dog and stand back up to my feet, knees cracking painfully. “I want one just like him,” I tell Michael, but in my head, I’m picturing us with a dog like Blue. Maybe he is too. 

I thank the owner awkwardly before grabbing Michael’s hand again, passing _Tastyland_ quickly. Travis is banging his head against the metal counter, probably irritated and ready for his shift to end. Michael ducks his head as we pass, urging me to do the same. Why is it so hot today? Thank God the café isn’t too far from here, so we won’t have to suffer this heat for much longer. “So, uh,” I ponder aloud, thinking it too soon for our relationship but deciding to be cutesy and romantic. “I really liked Blue. We should get a dog like that some day.” 

Michael melts at that. Of course _he’d_ get excited by my talking about our future together. Hell, I know I do. 

“ _Mahal kita_ , _te amo_ , I fucking love you, Jeremy Heere,” he mumbles breathlessly, leaning over to kiss my neck. I smirk and look up against the sun, hand blocking the light from my eyes as I look up at the awnings of all of the restaurants and shops around us. After spotting Christine from a few feet away, I guess we must be at _Dv8_. I whistle quietly, as to not draw much attention, and Christine's head whips up. She gasps and throws down whatever flower she was examining, skipping to greet Michael and I. 

“Jere!” she screeches, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing me tight. I exhale sharply, bringing my free hand around the small of her back and pressing it gently into her cardigan. Why is she wearing a cardigan in this weather? “Oh my God, it’s been forever,” Christine groans, pulling back and noticing my hand in Michael’s. 

“Oh my God, and you’re _dating_!” she chokes out, and I wince inwardly as I realize that I didn’t actually tell anyone that I’m dating Michael. That’s new. “Y-Yeah. Uh, Michael, this is Christine, my–“ 

Christine pulls Michael down by the collar of his plaid shirt, studying his features intensely. Michael’s grip on my hand tightens slightly, but he chuckles nervously and blinks a few times. “Hi there,” he says smoothly, and Christine clucks at him. “Ice cream guy... Cool. You seem nice.” She lets go of him and falls back to her heels, her flats scraping against the cement. “I’m Jeremy’s best friend, Christine. You can call me Chris, though, or Christine. I don’t care, really. Okay, everyone’s waiting inside.” 

I don’t think Christine breathes when she talks.

Christine grabs my other hand tightly and pulls Michael and I with her into the café, leading us to a corner booth with enough space for the three of us at the end. I grin at all of my friends, wedged comfortably between Michael and Christine as we slide into our seats. 

“Guys, this is Michael, the very-talked about celebrity that Jeremy refuses to shut up about,” Christine introduces Michael, whose shoe lace somehow got stuck under the table’s post. He looks up from his shoes and grins lazily, holding up a hand. “That me.” The table smiles warmly, waiting for me to ask them to introduce themselves, I guess. So I do.

Jenna looks up from her phone and pushes her hair behind one of her ears, her piercings catching the light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling above our table. “I’m Jenna!” she beams, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m currently running seven different _Instagram_ accounts, so you’ll have to excuse me if my eyes stayed glued to my phone.” Rich scoffs from between Chloe and Brooke, who look wildly awkward and, for some reason, out-of-place. “Right, that’s why your eyes never leave your phone,” he grumbles, and Jenna sticks her tongue out at him.

”Just because Jake’s not here doesn’t mean you get to be a little bitch,” she teases, and Rich balls up his napkin and chucks it at her. I groan and sink back in my chair, but Michael moves an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to him. “Seven? That’s wild. Are they all personal?” he furthers, shifting the topic of conversation. 

Jenna looks up with wide eyes, initially surprised. “I... No, uh, no. One is. I have two spam accounts, a fan account for Selena Gomez, a venting account, a photography account, and an account for pictures of my pet bird. I also run the school’s student social media account, but that’s not really mine, per se.” Michael nods and hums, eyes shifting to Chloe. She looks up to meet his gaze, seeming jumpy. I suddenly recall the way that her and Brooke and sobbed to me about being in love with each other despite the state of their friendship, which makes me feel guilty for some reason. 

“That’s, uh, that’s Chloe,” I interject, letting myself fall against Michael’s arm. Chloe looks at me, face slightly angry. She probably remembers the way I called her out. “I can speak for myself, Jeremy,” she spits, but then catches herself and shoots me an apologetic glance. 

“S-Sorry, yeah,” Chloe huffs, readjusting herself in her seat. “I’m Chloe. You have nice hair.” Michael raises his eyebrows and brings a hand up to his hair, running his fingers through a knotted part of the mop. He chuckles and shrugs, then moves his hand to my hair. “Not as nice as yours,” he jokes, and I swat him away. 

Rich leans against the table, legs probably crossed under him because he doesn’t know how to sit. “Tho, are you two, like, dating now? Whit-th ith fine, ‘cauthe I’m bi and all,” he probes, and Michael nods quickly before I can deflect. I sigh as Michael delves into all of the “couple things” we’ve been doing lately, mainly focused on the fact that we bought “old people bowling shoes” unironically before returning to Greensburg. Rich snorts at that, and i note that he doesn’t exactly need an introduction since they met before. I wish Jake were here, because Rich is a totally different person around that boy. 

“So you’re, like, homeschooled?” Brooke asks Michael, messing with her straw wrapper. I guess everyone got drinks before we showed up. Michael voices a nod, arm never leaving my shoulders. “Sure am,” he responds, disappointment lacing his words. “Y’all seem fun. I wish I could go to school with _you_ guys instead.” 

The table collectively hums their agreement, and I smile happily at their quickly-learned fondness for Michael. I’m glad that my friends like my boyfriend, and I’m glad that my boyfriend likes my friends.

My _boyfriend_. Jesus, why does it feel so good to say that? 

“You’re pretty nithe, pluth you juth-t thaid ‘y’all,’ and I really mith my boyfriend, tho that’th altho great,” Rich pipes up, taking a sip of whatever’s in his cup. Michael chuckles and cocks his head to the side. “Boyfriend? Where’s he at?” he returns, and Christine moans, annoyed. “Oh my G-“

”Fuckin’ leaderthip program!” Rich cries dramatically, sniffling loudly. “I get it, he’th thmart and good with people and liketh being all noble or whatever!” Part of me feels for Rich, because I know that whenever Michael plays or gets asked to play, I feel upset at the fact that he may have to leave for any period of time. I get slightly jealous at the fact that he’s so talented, but it mainly just rips my heart out yet fills me with joy that other people want to see Michael play. “I’m sure he’s very talented from what you’re saying, but if he says ‘y’all’ unironically, then I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Michael teases, and Rich feigns offense. 

“Thorry, what? He’th my boyfriend, of courthe I mith that hoe. He’th coming back tomorrow, though, and coming-back-from-a-trip thex ith alwayth–“

Christine makes a weird chirping noise to cut Rich off, shaking her head. “No one wants to hear about that,” she chimes, noticing a waiter that appears over our table. I order something to drink, as does Michael, and everyone at the table asks for some sort of pastry or traditional café item, whatever that means. Once the waiter leaves, Chloe clears her throat, to which Brooke perks up slightly. “I, uh, need the bathroom,” Brooke claims, voice cracking slightly. Jenna moves out of the booth so that Brooke can slide by, sitting back down with a huff. Chloe awkwardly stands up as well, shoving Rich a bit. 

“I have to go fix my... makeup,” she adds, shimmying past Rich and Jenna to follow Brooke. 

Weird.

”What was that about?” I ask the table, itching my ear against the crook of Michael’s arm. Jenna tilts her phone back and looks at me, dark eyes lidded. “Haven’t you seen them around each other? They’re hopelessly in love. Probably making out in the bathroom right now,” she points out, and I feel a lump get caught in my throat. I try to swallow it, but I can’t think about anything but Brooke and Chloe. Dating. Are they even dating? Why? Sure, they like each each other, but Chloe’s pretty toxic, really. Brooke’s too passive and allowing. She’s an enabler. 

Michael snorts beside me, fingers clutching and unclutching my shoulder. “Wow, are you all, like, gay or something? No offense, because same, but I figure we may as well get to know each other,” he ventures, and to my left, Christine hums thoughtfully. 

“I’m asexual, might be on the aromantic spectrum, too. Not sure! I don’t have everything figured out, but who does?” she asks pointedly, emphasis on the whole “ _I don’t have everything figured out”_ part. Cue a flashback to our awkward conversation in the car on our way to the beach. God, that seems like forever ago. Michael nods, looking at Rich. “Bisexual, right?” 

Rich nods, mouth too full of his drink to reply. Since Brooke and Chloe are off doing whatever they’re doing in the bathroom, everyone’s eyes fall to Jenna, who’s looking at her phone. She looks up at the expecting silence, gritting her teeth. “Sorry, uh, I don’t really know. Like, I’m questioning. I use ‘queer’ because I enjoy the umbrella-effect it has on me, but I guess I can experiment. I’m just not looking for a relationship right now I guess,” Jenna replies nonchalantly, scrolling back through her phone. 

Michael smacks his lips and lets his hand fall from my hair, which I guess was where it originally was at. “Cool, but I’m so thirsty and I really want that iced coffee,” he whines, and I roll my eyes. “Shut up and enjoy bonding time, fool,” I tease, and he sighs obnoxiously, pushing hot air into my face as I lean against Christine, trying to dodge it. 

Any anxiety that I may have been experiencing over Michael meeting my friends has since melted away. He seems to get along pretty well with them, and that’s probably one of the biggest steps in our relationship. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if u don’t agree w these h/c sexualities!! as joe tracz has stated, no one in the show is straight,, bc he was hella tired of the “everyone’s straight” trope 
> 
> it’s 12:59 am and it took me like 3 minutes to type this out bc i keep misspelling everything


	49. July 13

Michael and I sit together on the new bench that Mr. Johnson got specifically for me, which was super sweet of him because he probably doesn’t even know that much about me. Well, we did have that awkward lunch interview, which I still find weird because didn’t he put Michael in charge of finding a replacement for himself? 

That’s beside the point. 

Under the protection of the shade from the ice cream stand, Michael and I eat our homemade lunch, which we actually made last night when we got home from lunch with my friends. I forced him to make me a grilled cheese sandwich, which I accidentally ate, and then demanded that he make me another one. After some _gentle persuasion_ , Michael eventually complied, making another sandwich and shoving it into the fridge where I couldn’t find it. God, I really do love this boy. 

“Is it good?” Michael asks with his mouth full of his own sandwich, which is a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Gross. “I know it was in the fridge all night. Isn’t it, like, cold?”

I chew thoughtfully and shake my head. Though it tastes sort of stale, it _was_ in the summer heat for three and a half hours while Michael and I worked. This actually has been as bad or boring as I thought it was going to be, but I’ll probably retract that statement sooner or later. “It’s pretty good. Sun probably cooked it,” I reply around my sandwich, swallowing. Michael hums and taps the crust of his sandwich, eyes watering as he almost chokes on a piece of banana, though he manages to swallow it somehow.

”Gross, you’re gonna get, like, food poisoning. Did it curdle the cheese?” Michael teases, and I pout dramatically. “You’re mean. _No_ , it _didn’t_. Don’t bash your creation, Victor,” I mumble, bringing my legs up and crossing them under me. Michael gives me a weird look, then nods like he’s having an epiphany. “Oh, like _Frankenstein_. Cool. Keep your nerd shit out of here,” he counters, and I use a free hand to shove him playfully. “Me? A nerd? How many _Pokémon_ can you name in ten seconds?” Michael rolls his eyes and leans back, taking another bite from his sandwich. “That’s a geek. You’re a huge nerd. Lucky I love you,” he says through his mouthful of food. I grin and then try to hide it, but Michael just makes me feel so light and bubbly. 

“You’re cute when you blush, _cielito_. By that logic, you’re cute all the time,” Michael cooes before I can reply, and I blush even harder. 

Dumb Michael. 

“I love it when you speak whatever, you know,” I admit, losing interest in my grilled cheese sandwich. Michael raises his brows and smirks, balancing an elbow on his knee. “Oh yeah? You know I can’t speak either all that fluently, right?” he asks, and I shrug. 

“It doesn’t matter, dude. I like it either way,” I further. “You should do it more often. It’s hot.” God, that’s an embarrassing thing to admit to, but whatever. He may as well figure it out now I guess. 

Michael’s smirk deepens, and he puts his sandwich back in his bag and leans forward, kissing me softly. “Guess I’ll have to do it more often, then. Is it, like, a sex thing?” I can’t get any redder, can I? I quickly shake my head, hair falling in my face. “N-No, no,” I burst, and Michael laughs at me as he slides off of the bench to help a customer that’s apparently waiting to be served. 

Fuck, he’s definitely onto me.

———

Theatre group has apparently decided to meet every weekday until our opening night, which is our only night that we’re putting the musical on, but I haven’t been recently. Coming back to the chaotic mess that is musical theatre is a huge shift from what I’ve been used to as of late. 

“You brought Michael too? Fun, he can help us hang posters and flyers,” Christine greets me at the door, thrusting a huge stack of papers at me and a roll of tape at Michael. He gives me a confused glance, and I shrug it off as we turn on our heels to find places to put up flyers. “What play are you guys doing?” he asks, rolling out a piece of tape and sticking it to the flyer I’m holding up to the window of the building we’re standing outside of.

I huff and step back, making sure the paper’s straight. “It’s a musical,” I correct idly, moving over a window and stretching a flyer out to line up with the other one. Michael tapes it. “But we’re doing ‘ _The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee_.’ Dumb, but it’s just a little summer play. Once school starts back up, Mr. Reyes will probably have us do something bigger. I dunno, we have fun with it.” Michael clicks his tongue as he tears off another piece of tape, wrapping it around his finger as he waits for me to find another place to stick my poster. 

“How come you’re not rehearsing right now?” he questions, and I find another storefront to stick a piece of paper to. “We have a while. May as well advertise while we can,” I comment quietly, tired after sitting out in the sun all day. It’s not as hot right now, but I’d much rather be laying in bed with Michael at home. Well, my home.

Many times today, Michael’s phone started ringing or buzzing, and he declined each call every time. I thought that maybe it was, like, telemarketers or something, but after the sixth missed call, I started getting suspicious. 

“How are your parents?” I break the comfortable silence, holding another flyer to a lamppost. Michael remains silent as he sticks a piece of tape to the top of the paper and then to the bottom, lips drawn tightly into a straight line. However, after a moment, he speaks up. “I don’t know,” Michael breathes, fiddling with the tape. “They keep texting and calling, but, well, I don’t know. I’m tired of my dad.” 

“Look,” I blurt softly, careful not to seem rude and to not overstep. “I may not know what you’re going through, and maybe I’m not getting this whole thing, but your dad’s gonna be your dad. If he’s not thrilled with his son being gay, that sucks for him. However, your mom’s probably, like, super worried. I’m sure he is too, Micah. I would be. I know you and him don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot, and even if I can’t come over when he’s there, I don’t care. You should try to fix things with him, because if you’re gonna act childish and avoid this whole thing like a child, he’ll treat you like one.” Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have said that. 

Guiltily, I look up at Michael’s face, expecting to see it scrunched up in anger or resentment. However, it’s downcast but relieved. 

After a few minutes of silently hanging up posters, Michael sighs, breath ticking the back of my neck as he stretches to tape up a flyer. “You’re right,” he agrees thickly, sniffling. He’s not crying, is he? I look back up at him.

No, he’s not. 

“I _am_ acting pretty childish, huh?” he laughs, scratching the back of his neck with a free hand. He exhales sharply and shrugs. “I guess I’ll call tomorrow. It’s a bit late tonight, but even if he doesn’t agree with me or who I’m dating, I guess he’ll have to get over it eventually. I don’t need to give him any more reasons to be disappointed in me. Gotta be the bigger person sometimes.” I nod without a word, though Michael’s completely right. He plants a soft kiss behind my ear and we continue hanging flyers, place, tape, place, tape. 

I just wish that Michael’s dad would get over his opinions and love his son for who he is, not who he wants him to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a short chapter but i feel hella sick so please excuse it :,))


	50. July 14 - Part 1

I wait anxiously as Michael takes a call out in the living room, the controller between my hands barely enough to ground me. I try to focus on whatever game Michael had plucked from my extensive drawer of video games, controller buzzing as my character takes a hit. 

Are my hands shaking this badly? 

I don’t really know why _I'm_ so nervous about the whole “ _Michael calling his dad”_ thing, especially since I don’t think that I’ll be directly affected by it any time in the near future. Sure, maybe if this relationship ends up going somewhere, I’ll bite back those words, but right now, it doesn’t matter much. At least I don’t think it does. 

Michael’s been in the living room for about thirty minutes now, his voice a soft mumble against the theme of the video game I’m playing, or rather _was_ playing. Part of me wants to eavesdrop, but the other part convinces me to stay planted at my spot on my bed and worry instead. It’s not really my business, anyways. Plus, Michael will probably tell me when he gets back. I’m just surprised that I haven’t heard anything above a loud, assertive sentence or two from Michael’s end, but it wasn’t, like, an _angry_ assertiveness. I just really hope that Michael’s patching things up with his dad. 

Another fifteen minutes pass with me just staring blankly at the flashing _**GAME OVER**_ screen before Michael returns, face flushed and phone shaking in hand. I eagerly toss my controller aside, crossing my legs and sitting forward. Michael collapses beside me, screaming muffled by my comforter as he lands face-flat. 

“Is... Are you okay?” I ask cautiously, bringing a hand up to Michael’s hair. I toy with the ends of the strands, unsure exactly how to approach the situation. Michael rolls his head to the side, causing my hand to fall in his face. As an embarrassed recovery, I move it to cup the side of his face pressed against my mattress. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “We’re going to my parents’ for dinner.” 

Why did he say it like that? Isn’t his parents’ house his house too? 

I nod and raise one of Michael’s eyebrows with my thumb, making him snicker breathlessly and sigh. “Is everything okay?” I further, and he sits up just to push me back down onto the bed. I dodge his several attempts to kiss me, head rolling from side-to-side. “Stay still,” he pouts, lips missing mine again and landing on my cheek. I giggle and hold tight to his wrists because he was trying to tickle me. _No one_ tickles Jeremiah Heere unless they have a death wish. 

“No, tell me what he said,” I whine, stilling my head. Michael rolls his eyes and steals a kiss, and I move to wipe it off. “It’s fine. We had a... long talk. My dad wants to meet you, again, no pressure.” 

My breathing comes to a sudden stop, my eyes grow wide, and my throat swells up. No pressure? _No pressure?_ God, I’ve never been great with adults for some reason, and the fact that I have to meet Michael’s dad again makes me want to crawl into a hole. Maybe if Michael’s dad was more like his mom, then the prospect of getting to know him wouldn’t be so mind-numbingly horrifying. 

Michael kisses me again, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Wh-What do you mean, ‘ _no pressure_ ,’ dude? That’s, like, the most pressuring statement anyone could make!” I cry, terrified. My grip on Michael’s wrists tighten, and he tries pulling them back. 

“Jeremy, hey, it’s gonna be fine,” he assures me softly, tugging against my grip. “I like that you’re, like, holding my wrists so tight, but it hurts under the wrong circumstances.” I furrow my brow and let go of him, and Michael rubs his wrists with his thumbs. “Besides, I don’t think that you have anything to worry about. That was a _long_ conversation. I wish I could tell you everything we said.” 

“Why can’t you?”

Michael hesitates, exhaling slowly. I think something like elation entertains his glossy expression, but it passes quickly. “It’s just not the right time,” Michael decides, leaning back on his knees. “Whatever, I’m beat. Let’s nap and then head over. My family doesn’t usually eat until, like, nine anyways.” 

I frown slightly and pull out my phone, reading the time. It’s half past three on a Saturday afternoon and I’m stuck napping with my boyfriend at home. I don’t even like taking naps, but any chance to cuddle with Michael is a chance I’ll jump at. 

“Fine, but I’m not changing out of my pajamas until, like, five minutes before we leave.”

———

Getting ready to meet your boyfriend’s parents – _again_ – is one of the worst things someone could possibly be forced to undergo.  No one tells you about the seconds that feel like minutes, the minutes that feel like hours, the hours that feel like days when you’re just staring at your reflection, thinking. 

I can’t stop thinking. 

Michael slips behind me and slaps my ass, earning a scowl and a huff. “Don’t hit my butt, weirdo,” I reprimand, not that I actually mind it. Just the wrong place, wrong time. He sticks his tongue out at me and leans over my bathroom counter, finger tracing over one of his eyebrows. “You like it, I can tell,” he muses absently, readjusting one of his earrings. I’d love to get earrings if I weren’t so terrified of piercings. 

Needles? I don’t mind them. The dark? I couldn’t care less. Sharks at the bottom of a swimming pool? Even five-year-old Jeremy knew better. But piercings? Absolutely not. 

“Yeah, well, I can tell–“ I spit back, not really knowing where I’m going with it but not caring enough to finish my sentence. I watch Michael in the mirror as he mouths my words mockingly, nose scrunched up. “Yeah, okay. Uh, why are you getting all dressed up?” he asks, sporting one of his pajama shirts and a pair of basketball shorts. Does he play? 

“Well, I just wanted to look nice for your parents,” I mutter, slightly embarrassed. Second impressions are just as important, if not more important, than first impressions. At least I know that I can’t sink any lower in their books. Well, Michael’s dad’s book. I hope that Mrs. Mell liked me enough. Michael shorts and shrugs, shimmying around me to leave, bringing his hand down on my rear again. God, I hate him. 

He whistles shrilly and returns to my room, probably to slide on his shoes and grab his glasses, which he still hasn’t put on since we woke up. “Hey, do you play?”

”Play what?”

”Basketball.”

Michael pauses, not answering for a few seconds. I stop fucking with my hair and cast a glance out my bathroom door, spying Michael’s figure in my room’s doorframe. “A little, not really. Just at that one court with some friends sometimes,” he replies, chuckling. “I just like basketball shorts because they’re comfortable. Plus, it’s hard to find jeans for _big_ boys like me.” 

Michael should probably learn when to shut his mouth. “God, do you not learn manners in homeschool? It’s too early for comments like that,” I retort, tucking my button-down into my jeans. 

“It’s, like, half past eight.” 

I roll my eyes and rip myself from the counter, palms sweaty. I pad back to my room, ducking under Michael’s outstretched arms and sliding on my new saddle shoes. They’re actually pretty cute, but I won’t tell Michael that. “I don’t care,” I sigh, tying my shoes. “Let’s just go to your house and get this dinner over with.” 

I stand back up and turn around, faced with Michael’s looming figure. “Hey, it’s okay,” he cooes, bringing me up by my elbows. I stick out my lower lip and let it tremble, not realizing how upset I was over Michael’s dad my liking me. 

“What if he doesn’t like me?” I ask, voice cracking hoarsely. “If he doesn’t like me, he’ll think you have, like, bad taste in boyfriends. He’ll hate your sexuality and you’ll start hating me and–“ Michael cuts off my words with a warm kiss, hands lifting mine to his chest. I grip the fabric frantically, trying to ground myself again. I wish that I didn’t freak out as much as I do, but here I am. How long has it been since I’ve been to therapy? Do I even need to go anymore? Yeah, probably. Probably. 

I pull back with a shaky sigh, fingers tapping against Michael’s collarbones. “I-I’m sorry,” I grumble, blinking. 

Michael shakes his head and kisses my forehead. “You’re not gonna... Jere, I’ll _never_ hate you. I can’t help how my dad ends up feeling about you, but I really don’t care. My mom likes you, yeah, but I _love_ you, and that’s really all that matters, right?” 

Silence.

” _Right?_ ” 

I nod and bite the inside of my cheek, then nod again. “Okay, right. Right. Let’s go.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh,, filler!! starting another fic bc you know im never satisfied (++ thanks so much for all the well wishes!)


	51. July 14 - Part 2

My bathroom break doesn’t last very long, because nearly a minute and a half after hiding out in the small room, a soft knocking comes from the door. 

“Jere,” a hushed voice comes, followed by the sound of someone jiggling the doorknob. “ _Mi cielito_ , c’mon. You’re fine, it’s gonna go great!” Michael. I look up at my reflection, shaking and glossy-eyed. God, dinner hasn’t even started and I’m already a mess. With a sigh, I unlock the door, but return to my state in front of the mirror, elbows pressed painfully against the sink and hands resting against my eyes. 

Michael opens and door and closes it behind him, locking it. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, snaking his hands around my waist and pulling himself against my back. I melt against his touch, frowning at our figures in the mirror. That’s a pretty good question, actually: Why _am_ I upset?

Dinner hasn’t started because Michael’s dad apparently forgot, like, napkins or something, so Michael and I were just watching Mrs. Mell cook while we ate lime tortilla chips. The entire time, she was incredibly apologetic about the last time I had come to the Mell household, how her husband “isn’t usually like that” and how “he wouldn’t mean to drive you away like that.” Something about the endless string of apologies really struck a delicate chord within me, along with the urge to cry. 

Why do I feel like I’m about to cry? 

Maybe it’s just the nerves. My heart rate has been very irregular for the past few hours, it’s been hard to breathe, and my hands won’t stop shaking. At this rate, I won’t be able to hold a fork, let alone get my food from the plate to my mouth. 

“Jeremy, baby, talk to me,” Michael mumbles, his reflection concerned and downfallen. “Is everything okay? You’re paler than usual. Do you have a fever?” He brings a hand up to my forehead, back of it pressed against my hot skin. Well, maybe it just feels hot because it’s getting hot in here. Not in a good way. “You feel kind of warm... Should I cancel?”

I swallow and quickly shake my head, deciding that if I spend any more time looking at myself in the mirror that I’ll just drive myself into panic mode. Something about seeing yourself when you’re already on the verge of an emotional breakdown just makes you tip over the edge. “N-No, no, it’s fine,” I cover, spinning around on my heel. “I’m fine. Just, ah, nervous, I guess. But what’s new with that, huh?” 

Michael looks down at me with a soft smile, arms back around my waist. “Hey, it’s just me. I’m here,” he assures me, thumbs hooked around my belt loop at the back of my pants. 

“I know.” 

“Then there’s nothing to worry about, _cariño_. My mom really likes you. I love you. All that’s left is my dad, and if he doesn’t like you, well f-“ 

“ _Lalaki!_ Come on, Dad’s home and dinner’s ready!” a yell comes from the kitchen, bouncing off of the walls. I flinch slightly and flash my eyes up to Michael’s face, calming a bit at the sight. Something about Michael just has an incredibly relaxing effect on me, I guess.

Michael and I return to the kitchen, his arm hooked around mine as we catch sight of his dad. Any anxiety that I had tried to swallow resurfaces, making me want to throw up. He turns around, a grocery bag in his hands. I expect him to make an ill face at me, like an uncomfortable expression, but he actually grins. He _smiles_. God, his smile looks _just_ like Michael’s. “Jeremy, uh, hi!” Mr. Mell chirps, setting down the bag. I let my arm drop back to my side, but Michael forces it back up around his own. He rounds the kitchen island and extends a hand to me, but it’s kind of awkward because my right arm is looped around Michael’s. He ends up switching hands, so I shake it with my left.

”H-Hi,” I stammer, inwardly cursing myself for my awkward tendencies. I clear my throat and let go of his hand. “I mean, uh, how are you?” Wow, smooth recovery. 

“Well, thank you. Ah, _hijo_ , why don’t you pour some drinks. Jeremy can help me set out plates and utensils,” Mr. Mell delegates, opening a cabinet and taking out a stack of china. I love that all of the tableware matches, but that’s probably because Mrs. Mell works as an interior designer and enjoys matching colors and designs. I know I do.

Unsure what to make of the shift in Michael’s dad’s attitude, but I choose not to think too much about it as I pick up a stack of fabric napkins and chargers. They’re really going all out, huh? 

“So, Michael tells me that you’re into theatre,” Mr. Mell muses, setting down the plates around the small table. The centerpiece matches the drapes against the window, propped open so that light is streaming through. I hum and lift the plates to slide the chargers under them, straightening the plates too. “Yes sir,” I reply with an inward sigh. I really need to make a good impression, but this new attitude makes me wonder what exactly he and Michael talked about on the phone earlier. 

“Hey, ah, I’m really sorry about the other day,” comes the apology that I was sort of subconsciously waiting for. A bit of the weight against my chest is alleviated, though I still feel heavy as I fold napkins and tuck them under the plates. 

“No, it’s, uh, it’s fine,” I choke, sucking my teeth. God, this is a turnaround. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Mr. Mell shakes his head, leaning against the back of a chair across the table from me. “I didn’t mean what I said, and it’s not okay that I said it. I don’t blame you if you have a negative image of me, really. I mean, _carajo_ , I had one of you before I even met you,” he says, finger pointing lazily. There’s that word again, _carajo_. “Really, it’s okay. I get it,” I respond hoarsely, words starting to fail me. Can we _please_ just eat? 

“Well, I’m really going to try my best. I love Micah and I wouldn’t want to lose him over some old-fashioned, twisted morality,” he grumbles, sighing and tapping the back of the chair as he backs up. “Alright, dinner. I’m starvin’.” 

He leaves me with one more napkin to fold, but I sort of just let the fabric roll between my fingers as I stare blankly at the opposite wall. What’d he say? He didn’t want to _lose_ Michael? 

I feel a warm hand press against the small of my back, and Michael kisses my cheek. “Good?” I nod absently, looking back at the napkin and folding it. Michael hums and brings a hand up to the side of my face, turning it to face him. I close my eyes and let him kiss me before he goes back to bring food to the kitchen. I’m _so_ hungry, mainly because I’m not used to eating this late.

Michael and his parents come in with a few dishes, steaming and smelling absolutely heavenly. I look back at the kitchen to see if I need to help with anything, but Mrs. Mell pulls out the chair under me and forces me into it, then returns to the kitchen to grab drinks. Mr. Mell sits directly across from me, and Michael sits to my left, a comforting hand already finding its way to my thigh. Rosa returns with four wine glasses, two balanced in each hand, and sets them down. 

Oh my God, alcohol? 

Mrs. Mell finds her place next to her husband, sighing and smiling at me. “Okay, ah, who’s saying the prayer?” she asks in a smooth breath, and Michael, who’s already picked up his glass, snorts. “Don’t act like we do that,” he retorts, and Mrs. Mell shoots him a glare. 

“ _Tarantado_ , put the glass down. I ought to smack you!” she sneers, and Michael giggles as his hand drops from my leg. “Alright, dig in,” Mr. Mell interjects, leaning forward to grab a dish. 

I take a steadying breath and cast a sideways glance at Michael, hoping that this dinner goes well.

———

I know that I had made fun of Michael for getting so tipsy just from one bottle of beer, but I’m honestly just as much of a lightweight. However, instead of running my mouth without stopping and saying really stupid shit, I just fall asleep. 

Nodding off, I try to keep up with the conversation. My fork rests idly against my plate, my hand heavy as my eyes grow heavier. Michael’s saying something about how he started working at Tastyland again, and Mr. Mell says something about how his company is redoing that dinner that they were supposed to have. Apparently they’re renting out a space and doing company awards, and they need a piano player or something. 

“More wine?” Rosa asks me, and I smile hazily and nod. She picks up the bottle and rounds the table, setting a hand on my shoulder and pouring some out. Is wine against my religion? Maybe. Should I be drinking this much? Probably not. 

“I should’ve asked if it was okay before I gave you some,” she mumbles as Mr. Mell and Michael drone on, and I roll my head over to look at her. I place a hand on her cheek and grin, eyelids falling over my eyes tiredly. “O-Oh, no, it’s _fine_. ‘M not drivin’.” Mrs. Mell gives me a weird look and sets down the bottle, snickering as she puts a hand over mine. “Ah, _mahal_ , you’re not driving at all. Neither is Michael. Do you want us to call your mother?” 

I blink and let my hand fall, balling it into a fist before propping my head up with it. Everything feels really fuzzy. “Huh, my mom? Don’t have one. Try my dad,” I correct her, turning back to the table and picking up my wine glass. However, she plucks it out of my hand, grinning. “I think you’ve had enough,” she cooes, returning to her seat. 

Michael sets a hand on my shoulder, his wine basically untouched. He probably doesn’t want to drink a lot and have a repeat of that party we went to. “We should get to bed, huh? You’re exhausted.” 

I try putting up a fight, but before I know it, my hand is draped across Michael’s shoulders, his arm holding me at my waist. “Dinner was... really good,” I slur, smiling softly at Michael’s parents. “I’m really glad we did this.” Mr. Mell returns my smile and inclines his head, tilting his glass at me. “I am too, Jeremy.” 

With that, Michael takes me back to his bedroom, helping me onto the bed. I let him take off my pants, too tired and fuzzy to do it myself, and then crawl under the covers, head sinking into his pillow. Michael kisses my temple and pulls the comforter up, then moves to turn off the lights. “I’ll be back sh-“

I can’t hear the rest, because I’m already falling asleep, head buzzing and mind blank. 

Who was that guy at dinner and what did he do to Michael’s dad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh ohhh more useless filler,, question, who would your squip be? i feel like mine would be charlie day or something


	52. July 15

I wake up with a soft throbbing pain in my head, though it’s not at too great of an intensity at the moment where I can really call it a headache. Just a dull ache.

With a groan, I open my eyes and notice that it’s pitch black and that I have no clue where I’m at. I feel someone sleeping next to me, chest rising and falling, my arms strewn across their chest lazily. Oh, Michael. I let my head fall against the crook of his armpit, sighing contently as the uncomfortable feeling in my head becomes more noticeable. What time is it?

”Michael,” I whisper harshly, moving to wake Michael up. I need to figure out what the fuck is going on, because I can’t really remember. 

As I go to shake him again, I remember that I’m at Michael’s house. This is his bed. I just had dinner with Michael and his family. His homophobic father. 

Homophobic father? 

I shake my head and furrow my brow, trying to recall any signs that Mr. Mell had displayed homophobic tendencies or thoughts, but I can’t seem to remember. Didn’t Michael say something about having a long conversation with him over the phone? 

Humming, I bring my hands back up to Michael’s shoulders, pressing him against his mattress and letting up every so often. “Michael Mell,” I chime just above a whisper, feeling him stir beneath me. He groans and tries to shove me off, mumbling something about needing five more minutes. I roll my eyes and shake him harder, repeating his name over and over again until his eyes flutter open, tired and glossed over. 

“M’what?” Michael demands hoarsely, swatting me away and trying to roll back over. I pull him back to face me, climbing out from under the blankets and into his lap. I can’t see very well in the dark, and I _know_ that Michael can’t either, so I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or not. He brings his hands up to my hips, thumbs against the protruding bones. “Jere, ‘s too early, you fuckin’ horndog. Let’me sleep,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. 

I chuckle and shake my head, letting my hands fall limply to my lap. “No, wine’s wearing off.” I remember drinking wine. “Wanna talk about your dad.” 

Michael pauses, and the room’s so quiet I can hear the crickets outside. 

“Right _now_? What about him?” he replies, less tired and more alert. I feel his fingers tapping against me, boxers barely separating them from my bare ass. Hot. Too early. Why am I even awake? Did Michael wake me up? 

Wait, fuck, _I_ woke _him_ up.

”Yeah. You... You told me you had, like, a conversation with him? Hm? And then, like, we go to dinner and suddenly he doesn’t hate my guts anymore? The fuck is that about?” I slur, drunk off of how exhausted I am. The longer I stay awake, the more tired I become. Why can’t I just have this conversation with Michael some other time? 

I can feel Michael readjust under me, propping his head against his headboard. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can better see that Michael’s looking straight up at me, tired but determined, for some reason. “I do remember having a conversation on the phone. Changed a lot, I guess. If your son threatens to cut off connection with you, guess that’s pretty convincing...”

My stomach drops, my chest twisting into a tight knot. _Cut off connection?_ What does that even mean? Am I just too tired to follow?

”I may also have, uh, promised to go into the medical field if he tried to understand who I was. That wasn’t a big part, though. I talked about you a lot, how wonderful you are, how upset it made me that he didn’t even take the chance to get to know you before deciding that you were no good,” Michael rambles, voice scratchy. “Probably reminded himself of a personal problem, now that I think about it. But mainly he didn’t want his only child ditching him.” 

I really should’ve put this conversation off until later, because I’m really too tired to process everything Michael’s saying. “Wait, wait, wait,” I rush, holding up my forefinger on each hand. “You... You threatened to, like, leave your family? Cut off? You promised to do what?” 

Michael coughs dryly and shoves me off of him, bringing his knees to his chest as he rolls back away from me. “Yeah, sometimes you have to make certain sacrifices, _cielito_. I want to be with you and I don’t want my dad to treat you or me like shit just because of it. I wanna be myself without worrying about what my dad has to say. I wish he would get to know me more and take what I have to say into consideration. Sacrifices.” 

With a frown, I fall back into the bed, huffing quietly. I pull Michael back over so that he’s facing me, eyes drooping. 

“Hey, you should take it easy on him,” I comment in a hushed voice. “People are allowed to... have opinions. If he doesn’t like you being gay, that’s his loss. Doesn’t mean you gotta, like, separate from your family as soon as you’re on your own.” 

Michael scoffs and rolls his eyes, letting them fall shut. “Not like you’d understand. Your dad’s fine with you being gay.” 

“I’m not gay.”

” _Bi_ , okay, _sorry_ ,” Michael retorts, cutting me off. “Seriously, though. Think the wine’s talking, babe. Are you hearing yourself? My dad’s only okay with you because I promised to become like a doctor or some shit. Because I’m not leaving the family. Hell, he’ll need _someone_ to pay for a nursing home, right? Couldn’t lose his only son, Michael, huh?” 

I’m starting to get frustrated with Michael, and anyone who’s witnessed my emotions while I’m tired would agree that they’re incredibly amplified, extraordinary versions of my regular feelings.

“One, just because my dad’s not homophobic doesn’t mean that I don’t know what it’s like to not be accepted. My mom left because my dad and I suck. She couldn’t accept our places in life, so she left. You know what? That _sucks_ ,” I retort bitterly, spit landing on Michael’s face. He opens his eyes fearfully, confusedly. “Two, your dad doesn’t wanna lose you because he loves you, okay? You two have a g-great dynamic. The father-son bond is so much stronger than you’d like it to be.

”I know he’s not very involved with your life. Neither’s your mom. I know what it’s like to wish they were. And they wish they were more involved with you, too.” Alright, maybe the wine _is_ talking.

Michael’s gaze never shifts, never hardens, but doesn’t soften either. The corner of his lips twitches slightly once or twice, but I’m not too focused on him. Why am _I_ getting so worked up in the first place? I shouldn’t be getting so involved in Michael’s family life. “I mean, I... Fuck, sorry,” I try to recover, but Michael snakes and arm around my waist and pulls me against him, mouth against my neck in an instant. 

“You’re right. Hate it when you’re right,” he mutters, kissing my cheek lightly. “But go back to bed. My alarm clock says it’s three, and I’m fuckin’ exhausted. _Mahal kita_.” 

Michael plants a small kiss against my warm forehead, then burrows his nose into my hair before falling back asleep as quickly as he had woken up. I stare blankly at Michael’s face, which is too close to make out any discernible features.

I have no clue what that conversation was just about, though it’s not like there’s any reason to revisit it in the future, right? He explained everything, but it all seems too dramatic to be real or true. Maybe I’m just dreaming, though my head’s starting to hurt too much to not be awake. With a sigh, I decide that the best course of action would be to sleep this thing off, wake up, and see how I feel about it. 

Am I talking about my budding headache or Michael’s ultimatum with his dad? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ik this chapter is late and that it’s short and poorly written,, but im feeling a bit off mentally so probably slower updates?? 
> 
> this fic will be done shortly, thanks so much for keeping up w it haha! you’re all troopers and ilysm


	53. July 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knew the next long chapter would be an awkward blowjob scene :,) (***)  
> ++ forgot to say that this is a bit of a time hop!! three days

Michael’s birthday eve. 

Really, it should be a holiday within itself, if I’m being honest with myself. Michael’s forcing me to pretend like his birthday doesn’t exist in the first place, but I’ve always been huge on holidays and birthdays. It’s just part of who I am, I guess. 

“I don’t need a present on my ‘birthday eve’ or whatever the fuck you just said,” Michael snorts, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other around my hand. “Really, I don’t need a present for anything. You’re plenty.” I hum thoughtfully and then shake my head, foot tapping against the floor. “Nope, still getting a present. It’s super thoughtful, I worked super hard on it. Promise,” I reply, voice laced with humor and anticipation. 

I wasn’t lying; I’ve been working my ass off for this present I’m planning. Maybe not in the sense that most would think, but convincing myself to do anything remotely outside of my comfort zone is a shit ton of work. 

Ever since I was younger, I’ve had a difficult time doing things that made me uncomfortable. For instance, when I was in kindergarten and the teacher told me that I had to play with someone during break, it took me five minutes of inner turmoil and arguing with myself to approach a young girl at the sandbox. Of course by the time I had mustered up the courage, the teacher called for us to get in line and go to lunch. 

Smirking at the memory, I look out the car window and at the passing houses. Michael and I are staying the night at my place because my dad is out of town for the week, which means I have to house-sit. If I house-sit, by default, Michael has to house-sit with me. 

“I don’t like surprises,” Michael teases, pulling into my empty driveway. I wish I had a cooler car than Michael, because though I’d never admit it, his car embarrasses me. However, I really can’t talk since I don’t even have a car at all. Clicking my tongue, I shrug and unbuckle my seatbelt, letting go of Michael’s hand. “Sucks for you,” I return, blushing hard. God, I’m already giving too much away. Do I really want to do this? Is this even a gift? 

“Why are you so red?” Michael chuckles, bringing a hand up to my burning cheek. I swat him away and open my car door, sliding out and landing on the cement.

“‘M not.”

Shoes scraping against the driveway, I trudge up to my front door, house key in my back pocket. I’m tired and physically drained after sitting in the sun all day, then waiting while Michael had his therapy appointment, _then_ waiting while he got his medication refilled. It’s been a long day, and I’m starting to become more and more unsure of my... birthday plan. Surprise? I cringe at my train of thought. Shut up. 

Michael follows behind me, pocketing his keys as he readjusts the backpack slung across his shoulder. “You are _so_ red. Did you get sunburnt?” he jokes, and I fumble with the lock as Michael joins me at the door. Embarrassed, I try to look away, face warm. “N-No, I just... Shut up,” I retort hotly, finally unlocking the door and shoving it open. Michael’s breathy chuckle graces the back of my neck as I stumble through the doorway, sighing contently as the luxury of household air conditioning engulfs me.

”I hate summer,” I groan, hanging the house key on a small key-rack by the door. Michael whistles and shuts the door behind him, locking it. “If summer didn’t exist, you wouldn't have met me,” he points out, and I roll my eyes, falling down onto a couch face-first.

”That wouldn’t be so bad.” 

Michael gasps in feigned offense, letting his bag fall next to the sofa. “That went straight to my heart,” he pouts, his hand probably fanned across his forehead dramatically. I snort and roll over onto my back, legs splayed across the arm of the couch. “Prove me wrong and I may retract my statement,” I yawn, bringing my arms above my head to stretch out my back. God, I’m sweaty. A whiff of my exposed armpits lets me know that I smell gross, too.

Why doesn’t _Old Spice_ ever last all day as its branding promises? 

I watch as Michael falls over the arm of the couch and across me, the sudden weight causing me to huff in surprise. I bring one of my arms around his back and a hand to his hair, pulling him against me. We’re both hot and smell like sweat, but I guess we can be gross together. 

“I need a shower,” Michael says into my shoulder, voice muffled. I grin and close my eyes, reveling in the moment while it lasts. “Don’t leave me!” I groan, sticking out my lower lip. “It’s your birthday eve, and as your boyfriend, I say that you can’t leave me on your birthday eve!” 

As the statement leaves my mouth, I realize a few things. For one, I’m a completely different person around Michael. I never stutter, I always feel comfortable and secure, and I never doubt our relationship. Sure, there are times where I’m afraid Michael doesn’t love me or that he just feels sorry for me, but those moments are rare and short-lived. Michael makes me feel so good about myself and who I am, who _we_ are. Personal identity isn’t a concept that I’m too familiar with anymore, which is ridiculous because we haven’t even been dating for a whole month, have we? 

Whenever a friend calls and asks if I want to hang out, I always inform them that _we_ , Michael and I, are busy, or that _we_ have work. I’m not myself; I’m part of something bigger than myself. 

No one else can make me feel that way. Why is Michael the exception? 

“What are you thinking about, Heere?”

I blink and furrow my brow, seeing that Michael’s moved so that his elbows are propped on either side of my head, face inches from my own. I swallow hard and offer him a soft smile, pursing my lips. He gives me an amused glance and lowers himself to kiss me, mouth barely brushing against my own before he pulls back. 

Dejected, I scoff, moving my arms from Michael to my chest, crossing them. “Meanie head, kiss me!” 

“What are you thinking about?” 

I blow air against Michael’s face, his eyes squeezing shut as I do. He giggles and opens his eyes again, beaming. “Really, Jere,” he urges, raising his eyebrows. “What’re you thinking about?” His soft features are enough to convince me to talk things out again, not that there’s anything negative to sort out or whatever. I just love talking about how much I love Michael. 

“Just about how much I love you, _duh_ ,” I gush, my hands back in Michael’s hair. My thumbs trace the backs of his ears, skin soft and hot under my touch. I love that I can fluster Michael so easily. Fuck, he probably feels the exact same way about how embarrassed he can make me. No one man should have all that power.

Michael smirks cockily, eye half-lidded. “Oh really? That’s a mood,” he mumbles, bending his arms so that his thumbs can fiddle with the ends of my hairs. 

I chuckle and squint up at him, hands falling to the small of Michael’s back. “You’re such a fucking dork, let me have my sappy birthday eve moment,” I chirp, smiling and readjusting myself so that I don’t fall off of the couch. Michael hums and tugs at my hair lightly, knowing that I have a sensitive scalp. We had a conversation about it yesterday, because we have really weird conversations. 

“Is this my present?” he asks sarcastically, and I roll my eyes, toying with the hem of his shirt. “No, dumbass. That’d make me a shitty boyfriend, wouldn’t it?” I respond dryly, then clear my throat. 

“I don’t know, I think it’s just crazy how you change me so much. Like, not just my life. I mean me as a person,” I start, gaze anywhere but meeting Michael’s. “We’ve been dating less than a month and I’m, like, a totally different person around you. Don’t stutter. Don’t think too hard about what I say. I’m just super duper comfortable around you, yeah? Sounds dumb now that I’m saying it, but no take-backsies, right?” 

Michael seems amused rather than touched, which shatters my confidence slightly. “Wh-What?” I inquire nervously, grip on Michael’s shirt tightening. He shakes his head and leans down again, connecting our lips in a sweaty, heated kiss.

I breathe out gently as he deepens the kiss, lips working at mine determinedly. His posture dampens slightly, body weighing down against mine slightly as we continue, mouths wet and shaking with anticipation. Too graphic? Maybe. I can’t exactly describe what it feels like to kiss Michael, mainly because my brain and any other bodily functions completely shut down when I do. All I can consciously feel is a soft buzz throughout my body, extending to my limbs and all the way to my fingertips, my toes. A hungry growl always rests idly in my stomach, only surfacing when the gentle kissing isn’t enough. 

We break apart momentarily to switch sides, shifting our heads. However, before we can reconnect, I bring my hands up to Michael’s shoulders, holding him back. 

“J-Jere, please,” he begs, eyes wild. “Let me kiss you, _sinta_. Can’t have you under me like this and not–“ 

“Your birthday eve gift is a blowjob,” I blurt before I can stop myself, slurring the words together so they all sound like one. I try to swallow the lump of anxiety and regret rising rapidly in my throat, chuckling hoarsely instead. God, I’m a hazard to myself and to my personal well-being. 

Michael knits his brows together, confused. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Sorry, it’s a what?” he asks for clarification, though the playful edge in his voice tells me that he knows exactly what I just said. I shudder and readjust uncomfortably, hands hanging loosely from Michael’s back. 

“I, uh...” 

“Did you say something about corn on the cob?” 

Against my screaming conscience, I laugh hard at that, snorts and all. Michael‘s laughing falls in breath with my own, breathless and bated. 

“N-No,” I choke after I regain my breath, swallowing hard and smiling weakly. “ _Blowjob_.” 

Michael’s features lighten immediately, face flushed but glowing. His eyes become desperate and intrigued, catching the light from the lamp behind us. “What, my birthday eve gift is _me_ giving _you_ a blowjob?” he asks with a snicker, and I shake my head quickly. “Oh yeah, no, that’d be a _great_ present,” I manage, sounding slightly mordant despite my best efforts. “No, Micah.” 

“Then what?” Michael’s voice is barely above a whisper, breath hot against my already burning face. I feel the urge to yank my shirt up past my head, hiding amongst its fabric. God, this is so embarrassing. How does anyone manage to suggest sucking off their partner so shamelessly? 

“You know,” I mutter under my breath, closing my eyes. Michael clucks at me disapprovingly, then tangles his fingers in my hair again. “But I want _you_ to tell me,” he reiterates, and I don’t think that I’ve ever blushed harder in my entire seventeen, almost eighteen, years of existence. This is what Michael does to me, for fuck’s sake. 

With a groan, I open my eyes, meekly looking up at Michael. His eyes are dark, the same darkness inhibits his features whenever we do anything like this. It’s the same darkness from the back of his car when we made out before his first jazz thing, the same darkness from when he gave me a handjob while I was on the phone with Christine... Jesus, it turns me on more than any porn the Internet could offer.

“I said that your birthday eve gift is _me_ giving _you_ a blowjob, okay?” I emphasize, pulling Michael back down by his waist and kissing him again. He mumbles something against my mouth, taking my bottom lip between his as my shaky hands round his back, fumbling with the button and zipper on his shorts. 

Michael suddenly disconnects our lips, panting slightly and giving me a puzzled look. “What, right now? Here?”

His voice cracks slightly as the questioning comes, concerned and breathless. I stare up at him innocently, nodding quickly before returning to his zipper. It may or may not be stuck. “You want to suck me off on the same couch you and your dad watch _Fixer Upper_ on?“ he furthers, and my nodding becomes frantic and thirsty.

”Chip and Joanna w-would be disappointed, you dirty boy.”

I chuckle airily as I help Michael shimmy out of his khaki shorts, and he sits back awkwardly to pull his legs out. Balancing on the opposite arm of the couch, Michael watches me with wide eyes, breathing heavily. We don’t say anything else as he leans against it, fingers digging into the fabric slightly as I settle between his bent legs. 

Hesitantly, I bring a questioning hand up to the waistband of Michael’s underwear, messing with the elastic. 

“R-Really, Jere,” comes Michael’s voice, excited but reserved. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. Don’t want you to f-feel uncomfortable or anything.” My breath hitches in my throat as I gaze up at Michael, suddenly remembering that a chiropractor once told me that I have a fucked up jaw. Hopefully it won’t interfere too much, right? 

***

Swallowing hard, I rest my hands against the inside of Michael’s thighs, mouth working at the slight bulge in Michael’s underwear. I’ve only seen a few pornos where a chick blew a dude, and this is usually how it would start: the back of a blonde’s head as she nuzzled her face against the Channing Tatum-type’s crotch, making weird, exaggerated moaning noises as the guy groaned gruffly. 

I wouldn’t be _that_ stupid.

Michael’s hands immediately fly to the base of my neck, trembling and slightly sweaty. “A-Ah,” he chokes, chuckling nervously as I venture to look up at him through hooded eyes. He’s falling apart. 

And that makes me feel so good about myself for some reason. 

Returning to my work, I detach my mouth from his underwear, blinking at the wet spot I sucked into the fabric and breathing hard. Fuck, this probably isn’t how I’m supposed to be doing it. Hands shaking, I move one past the waistband of Michael’s boxers, pulling out his dick and almost gagging just looking at it. Not a grossed-out gag, but it’s just occurred to me that I’ve never actually seen his penis. Just felt it once in a shower. 

“G-God, Jere, do-on’t just look at it,” Michael inhales sharply, voice leaking with desperation. I bite the inside of my cheek thoughtfully, remembering how big and awkward my teeth are. Great, small jaw, huge teeth. Amazing. I’m truly blessed. 

I’m snapped back to reality as Michael pulls roughly at my hair. “N-Needy,” I huff. 

He moans airily and slams his eyes shut, mumbling and begging me to just suck his dick already. God, he’s an absolute wreck and my mouth hasn’t even touched him yet. 

In a sudden burst of life-or-death adrenaline, I wrap my mouth around the head of Michael’s cock, still unsure. I really have no clue what the fuck I’m doing. Porn doesn’t tell you how terrifying it is to have all this power at once. Michael makes a weird guttural noise as I take him into my mouth, my hand wrapped uncertainly around the base of his member as I come back up to look at him, pressing my abnormally short tongue against the head. 

God, I have a short tongue. 

When Michael’s grip against the back of my neck tightens slightly, I travel further down his dick, jaw locking characteristically as my airway becomes blocked. This is so uncomfortable, but Michael coming apart beneath me makes it all worth the discomfort and anxiety. 

“Jere, baby, oh God, _please_ move faster, you fucking tease,” Michael gasps, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. With a surprised moan, I feel a gag form in my throat, but I’m determined not to gag. I’m terrified of fucking this up. Michael always makes it look so easy. Well,  _made_ it look easy that one time he blew me. I do as Michael says, hollowing my cheeks as I come back up, then force myself back down gently, hand stroking whatever I know I won’t be able to fit down my throat. 

Michael is reduced to throaty sobs as he pulls my hair desperately. Who knew he’d be this needy? Is he faking it? Sounds like that couldn’t be faked, though, could they? 

I find a rhythm as well as I’m able to, teeth periodically grazing Michael’s member by accident when my movements become too frantic or jerky. My jaw is starting to become sore and I just started. I can tell when my teeth skim Michael’s dick, because his knees twitch or pull against me as he chokes on a pained hiss every time. It makes me feel overwhelmingly guilty, and I come up to stretch out my jaw whenever it happens. 

For some reason, I start losing motivation. Any drive that I had possessed prior to this moment starts to diminish, fading as my pace slows down. Hell, this is harder and more draining that I thought it would be. 

Michael’s panting never lets up, but he starts massaging small circles into my hair and moans my name a few times. “Jeremy, oh God, you’re so good,” he groans, bucking up into my mouth suddenly. He’s going to hit my gag reflex, fuck. “So pretty like this, b-between my legs. You look _so_ good... Your mouth feels so good, fuck. Keep g-going, I’m so close, _cielito_. Oh my G-“ 

Something about the encouraging tone in Michael’s voice inspires me sexually, urging me to keep up what I’m doing. With a shrill but unwavering note singing my name, Michael finishes _in my mouth_ , and I pull back before I choke.

A sputtering mess, I cough as Michael finishes against my face, hands still in my hair. If he weren’t moaning so loudly, he’d probably be laughing at how ridiculous I look right now. My face is as red as Michael’s shirt, shining because I’m sweaty or because I have an oily face, his cum dripping from my features unattractively. When he finally opens his eyes and looks down at me, I hear him choke on a cough. 

Maybe I don’t look too unattractive like this. 

***

“H-Holy shit,” Michael breathes hard, arms going limp and resting on my shoulders. I chuckle breathlessly and blink, sucking in as much air as I can. I can’t believe I didn’t choke, let alone bite his dick off. Probably came close to it a few times. “I’ve never had my dick sucked before. I... I guess I wouldn’t mind celebrating birthday eve if this is what my present ends up being every year.” 

I roll my eyes and awkwardly put Michael’s dick back in his underwear, patting his clothed member with a nervous giggle and sitting back up. “I need a shower, so...” I drift off, running a hand through my hair as Michael’s fall to his lap. 

“I’ll beat you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations  
> spanish  
> cielito - little sky (in case you’ve forgotten!! i adore this nickname!!!)  
> tagalog  
> sinta - sweetie or sweet-heart (to my understanding)


	54. July 19

Three different people, three different octaves, “ _Happy Birthday_ ” being sung awfully in three different languages.

“ _Cumpleaños feliz_ –“

” _Maligayang bati_ –“

” _Happy birthday to you_ –“

I grin widely while singing, fingers tapping against the table along with the rhythm. Michael’s face is washed in the soft orange light from his cake’s candles, illuminating his smile as he claps along with everyone’s uneven singing. With a long ringing note that fills the room shakily, the singing ends, and Michael closes his eyes, blowing out the flames. Eighteen candles. 

“What’d you wish for?” I ask curiously, blinking as Mr. Mell turns the lights back on. Mrs. Mell takes the cake from Michael, positioning her knife. “Corner piece for Micah, what do you want, Jere?” 

“The one with the ‘ _M_ ’ on it,” I coo, and Michael kicks me playfully under the table. “I can’t tell you what I wished for, because then it won’t come true,” he responds, holding his plate out for his piece of cake. “You should know that, _starboy_.” I screw up my nose and stick out my tongue, foot tapping at the edge of my seat as I wait for my own slice. Star what now? 

Mrs. Mell smacks Michael in the back of his head with the spatula she’s about to use to lift up his cake, then wedges it between the cake and the plate. “Your dad and I are taking vacation time to visit your grandmother this weekend. She’s not doing well. Make sure the plants stay watered, and don’t burn down the house. You too, Miah,” she croaks, shoving Michael’s plate back at him and reaching for mine. 

I stick out my plate and bite the inside of my cheek, shooting Michael a suggestive look. “When are you guys leaving?” Michael asks, a huge bite of cake balanced on his fork. As he meets my gaze, I swallow as I realize that he’s thinking the same thing. 

“Tomorrow morning.” 

It’s not ideal, but I guess it’ll work. My post-dinner birthday plans for Michael will keep him out of the house until around midnight, so _other things_ can wait. 

“Okay,” Michael says around the cake in his mouth as his mom hands my plate back. “Are you not inviting us because it’s _Lola_ who’s not doing well?” To me, “She doesn’t like me.” I nod understandably and cut off a bite of my cake, bringing it to my mouth and shifting my gaze from Michael to his dad. 

Honestly, him and I haven’t been on an _awful_ note, per se. Not exactly, at least. I think that things are a little awkward between us, to be real, but Mr. Mell is really trying to make progress. Completely shifting one’s opinion – _especially_ if it’s an opinion that they’ve held their entire life – can take a really long time; I get that. Some people have different views on homosexuality, and if Michael’s dad were to have a negative one, I’m not too upset with the fact that it’s not too severe. I just need to try my best to prove that I’m a great boyfriend, which is proving incredibly difficult. 

We finish eating our cake as Mrs. Mell explains that Michael’s grandmother, _Lola_ , is on her last leg. Michael doesn’t seem to upset about it, though he has to put on a feigned expression of grief as his mom describes her well-being. 

As Michael finishes, I swallow a bite of cake and wave my fork at him. “Hey, go get your keys and stuff,” I tell him, grinning. His parents already approved me taking him out of the house late, or rather him taking _me_ out this late. They had asked what I planned on doing with Michael, to which I had just replied with “stargazing.” That was enough for them. 

I actually have a few other plans. 

“Les’go,” Michael whines as he comes out of the hallway, hopping on one foot as he slips on his other shoe. I look back at my cake and shove the rest into my mouth, icing leaking from the corners of it. Mumbling around the cake, I stand up, plate and fork in hand, and pad to the kitchen. “Leave it, _mahal_! Go have fun, boys! Stay safe!” Rosa chimes as she sweeps me away from the sink taking my dirty dishes. Uncertainly, I plant a kiss on her cheek, mouth still full, and jog to catch up with Michael, who’s waiting impatiently by the door. 

“Have fun, _hijos_ ,” Mr. Mell calls after us, and Michael stops in the middle of opening the door, turning his head to beam at his dad. With a nod, Michael resumes his door-opening, bounding down the steps and leaving me to close it. 

What was that about?

———

Michael and I break apart, gasping at the same air. He chuckles breathlessly, hands around my hips. “I gotta say, this has probably been my best birthday yet,” Michael cooes, taking the hem of my shirt between his fingers. 

I smirk and rock back on his lap thoughtfully, gazing down at Michael. “Wow, your other birthdays must’ve sucked then, huh?” I tease, but Michael scoffs and shakes his head, sighing contently. “No, I usually just go to _Chuck-E-Cheese’s_ ,” Michael jokes, and I let myself laugh at what a dork my boyfriend is. Leaning back down, I reconnect our lips, melting as the heat from Michael’s body and the cool night air from the sunroof wash over me. 

When I was trying to figure out how to put together the perfect birthday gift for Michael, I couldn’t really think of anything that was tangible. I’m not very creative or artistic, so a homemade anything was already out of the question.

Michael’s a really special guy, and trying to find a gift as special and unique as he is would be pointless and pretty much impossible. 

Of course I had procrastinated on planning out the day, deciding just a few days before to start thinking about things. A few things had crossed my mind, but they would either cost too much money or too much energy and time. For one, we could’ve gone to the art museum where I first watched Michael play. The memory warms my heart, but it just didn’t seem right. 

Another idea I had pondered was taking a trip up to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh, both for obvious reasons. Just didn’t happen. 

So what I eventually settled on was making out in Michael’s crappy car, trespassing on the same farmland we had shot off fireworks on the day after the Fourth of July. Not bad, Heere. 

Pouring my pointless thoughts into kissing Michael, I shift slightly, trying to find a less awkward position. How long have we been kissing for? I force myself to moan against the kiss, and Michael responds by tightening his grip on my hips. 

I pull back again, to Michael’s dismay, and set a steadying hand against his chest. Wait, when did I take off his shirt? “I love you, but it’s probably almost twelve and we have somewhere else to go,” I inform him quietly, voice just about the steady buzz of alternative music spewing from the radio. Michael opens his mouth to protest, but I move my hand to cover his face and locate his shirt with my other hand. “Let me try to be a hopeless romantic, fool. Take me to _Tastyland_.”

———

“Tell me that I’m not the most thoughtful boyfriend in the world,” I boast teasingly as Michael leans against the chilled counter of the ice cream stand, sighing. He buffs a stain on the metal and looks up at me, standing on the opposite side of the cart. 

“You’re not that most thoughtful boyfriend in the world.”

I scoff and bring a hand to my chest, pretending to cry. “Straight to the heart, Micah,” I choke, breaking character to giggle. “What’s my flavor?” 

The question really brings me back to when I had spent my first month of summer coming to get milkshakes every day, denying my attraction to Michael and my very obvious deviations from heterosexual norms. I really wish that I could go back in time and scream at old Jeremy, but I guess that hindsight is always twenty-twenty, right? 

Michael pulls out a sticky note that he’s been using the entire summer to track my orders, running his finger down the menu in front of me. “Actually, looks like you’re back at number one,” he reads in a surprised tone, setting the small paper back under the counter. “It’s been that long?” 

I hum and tap my finger against the counter, gazing up at Michael. “I guess I really liked coming here. Good milkshakes,” I muse, smiling. “Better customer service.” 

“I know a thing or two about servicing customers,” Michael replies, pulling out the box of milkshake powders and a carton of milk. I’m not sure how much of this is legal, but it’s not like Mr. Johnson would mind. I scrunch up my face and clench my teeth as I wait, absently biting at the air while I watch Michael work. Even near midnight and in a sweater and basketball shorts, Michael is still the most attractive human being I’ve ever come into contact with. 

I’m truly blessed.

Michael yawns as he looks around the pretty much deserted street, pulsing the blender’s contents as he makes my milkshake. “Vanilla, since that’s the first milkshake you ever got from here,” Michael tells me tiredly, voice hoarse. I lean against the counter and nod, pursing my lips expectantly. Michael rolls his eyes and catches my lips between his own.

”Really, Michael, I’m so lucky to have you as my boyfriend,” I mutter under my breath. “Happy birthday.” 

Michael looks up at me, glasses catching the light of the moon from behind me. He grins softly and turns the blender off, grabbing a cup from a shelf under the counter. “Your birthday’s coming up, too,” Michael mentions, but I swat the comment away. “True, but it’s _your_ birthday right now. We’re celebrating.” 

“By me making you a milkshake?”

I pretend to pout as Michael pops a lid onto my cup, sticking a straw into the drink. “Hey, it’s, like, symbolic or something,” I counter, taking a sip of my milkshake. Michael chuckles softly as he makes himself something, and when he finishes, he locks the cart back up. 

We sit on the bench behind the stand, our hands between us, intertwined. It’s pretty cheesy and domestic, but considering that his birthday eve gift was a fucking blowjob, I can excuse it.

”I can’t wait to spend every birthday with you,” Michael whispers against my ear, kissing the side of my head and sitting back. I look at him with a hazy grin, sipping from my milkshake. He just looks so perfect like this, hand in mine, the spotted stars in his eyes twinkling in the most cliché fashion imaginable. 

With an agreeing hum, I turn back to the view of buildings across the street, stars hanging over the city and lighting up the night sky. It’s gorgeous. Michael’s gorgeous. 

Michael readjusts his position next to me as I tighten my grip on his hand. If I thought that things couldn’t get even more sickeningly sweet, I was wrong, because as I feel myself getting tired, Michael purrs, “Don’t melt your drink before you finish it, hot stuff.”

I love this boy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this was short or poorly-written,, i have a pretty bad headache // who’s your favorite bmc character, revival or og?


	55. July 20

Michael has work today, and I let him whisk me along because I can’t seem to spend a moment without him.

Carefully balancing my notebook on one thigh while scanning my phone that’s held tightly in the other, I try my best to make my summer reading assignment as convincing as possible. The book that I was supposed to read is called _Brave New World_ or something like that, and after briefly skimming the chapter-by-chapter summaries on _Shmoop_ , I’m so glad that I didn’t actually read it. 

“Dear _God_ ,” I gasp, horrified at the synopsis of the last chapter, squinting and reading the page over again to make sure I read that right. Michael turns his head up from his phone, leaning with his back against the cart. “Hm?” 

Holding my pen between my teeth, I hold my phone up to Michael, eyes wide. He takes it cautiously, eyes washing over my screen as he lets the words sink in. He’s surprisingly unaffected by the summary, eyes half-lidded in obvious disinterest. “Wild,” Michael states in a contradictory tone, handing my phone back to me. I scoff in mock offense and pocket my phone, taking the pen out of my mouth and poising it above my notebook. 

“Dude, it’s freaky. John, like, had sex in a fucking orgy and then killed himself. ‘ _Wild_ ’? You’re wild,” I respond in a low mumble, scribbling down something about how fucked up it is that someone would have sex and then commit suicide straight away. How bad was the sex? 

I’m probably missing the point here.

Michael hums a chuckle and turns around, stretching his back as he leans over the counter. “I would, too. I don’t like group sex,” Michael comments nonchalantly, peaking my interest. My head shoots up and I give him a questioning look like he can see me. He doesn’t, of course. That reminds me, though... 

“Hey,” I mutter, folding my legs so that they’re crossed under my and setting my notebook on top of them. “You remember when your dad said, like, ‘ _ego_ ’ or something and you kinda smiled at him? Don’t know, sounded important. I guess I’m asking why.”

Turning back around, Michael beams at me, eyes catching the reflection of the sun off of the metal bench. “Oh, ‘ _hijos_?’ That means ‘sons.’ He called you his _son_ , Jere. Like, isn’t that a really great sign? I think he’s making amazing progress, and it makes me happy to see that he’s trying so hard,” he rambles, face glowing. I can’t help but smile at how happy this is making him, but my chest tightens at something he says. I can’t believe that he’s sacrificing a preferred career just so that his dad forces himself to like me. 

“Oh, alright,” I reply curtly, uncrossing my legs and resuming my dialectical journal. I double-check that I got both the page and paragraph number correct for the quote I’m using, hoping that whoever wrote these synopses for _Shmoop_ knew what they were doing.

I don’t even have to look at Michael to know that my reaction dampened his elated mood, but I can feel the air around me fall a bit.

Ouch.

“Wh-What?” Michael stammers, voice cracking. Before I can answer, I look up and spot a customer waiting behind Michael. 

“Christine!” 

I’m at my feet in an instance, dropping my notebook and pen to the seat of the bench. Honestly, I miss my friends, and as much as I like spending time with Michael, I miss hanging out with Christine, too. Of course I’ve been actively choosing to avoid plans with her, and I’ll continue to do so, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t miss it. 

Christine throws her arms around me as I round the ice cream stand, bringing my hands around her head. “Dude, I’m here to see if you had died or not,” she murmurs, pulling back and shoving me hard. “No hugs for you.” 

I chuckle and scratch my arm instinctively, catching myself and letting my arms fall back to my sides. “I’m not dead yet,” I return, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Guess I’ve just been busy, sorry. How’ve you been?” Christine shrugs and crosses her eyes, eyes flickering to Michael’s figure for a millisecond. “Fine, how’s Four-Eyes?” 

Michael clutches his chest and feigns a hurt expression, sniffling. “Ouch, Christine. Right in the heart,” he chokes. 

Christine rolls her eyes and huffs, rocking back on her heels. “Don’t forget about me, Heere. Your best friend needs lovin’, too,” she reprimands me, and I hold up my hands innocently. “Oh, that reminds me,” she adds, lighting up. “You’re coming out to dinner with us for your birthday. I guess you can bring your lost puppy.” She gestures weakly to Michael, who grins like an idiot. 

God, I love that boy. 

“Who’s coming?” I ask, eyes shifting from Michael to Christine. She taps her chin and hums thoughtfully. “You know, Jake, Rich, Jenna, Brooke... Chloe, if you don’t mind...” 

I kind of do mind, but I guess that it’d look better for me if I had more people at my table, right? 

From behind Christine, Michael whistles and holds up a hand, inviting himself. Christine sticks out her tongue and turns back to me, clapping a hand around my shoulder. “Out of town. We’re carpooling. Find a ride and we’ll pay. I’ll let you know when and where. Happy two-days-before-your-birthday day,” she chimes, turning on her heel to give Michael a very Christine look. “Hit me up with that birthday cake ice cream,” she demands, slipping her wallet out of her dress pocket. 

Christine insists on only wearing dresses if they have pockets sewn into them. 

Michael nods obediently, tilting his head and fluttering his eyes. “Anything for you, Your Highness,” he affirms, ringing up her total and holding his hand out for her payment. 

Two of my favorite people in one place and I can’t even tell if they’re getting along or not. 

———

“I need to practice piano,” Michael notes as he tilts a watering can back, gazing at the plant he just finished watering. I nod from my place on the counter, leaning against a cabinet. It’s not very comfortable, but the view is gorgeous.

Michael’s my view.

“Then go practice. I wanna hear you play,” I agree, sliding off of the marbled counter and to the floor that I had swept half an hour ago. Mrs. Mell was very clear about the things she had expected us to do while her and Mr. Mell were out of town, going as far as to leave a carefully-placed to-do list on the front door. 

With a huff, Michael sets the can under the sink, tucking it between a jug of bleach and a bottle of _Drano_. “I said that I need to, not that I _want_ to. Why practice piano when I could put my fingers to better use?” he throws back playfully, straightening up and extending his hands for mine. I scoff, taking his digits between mine nonetheless. “That’s really fucking gay, Michael. No thanks,” I retort bitterly, even though I don’t really mean that. Michael chuckles, planting a kiss against my forehead.

”Video games, _cariño_. Video games.” 

I fall against Michael’s chest, neck bending slightly as I search for a comfortable position. My hands snake around Michael’s waist, setting at the small of his back. 

“Whatever,” I mumble against his sweater, blinking. “I love you.” 

Michael returns my embrace, pulling me closer. “I guess I love you too,” he teases, pulling back to look down at me. “Christine seems to have things together, planning your birthday like that. Doesn’t mean that you’re not getting planned stuff from me too, though. I’ve been preparing ever since you told me when your birthday was.” I giggle and shrug, arms hanging idly from Michael’s frame. 

“Aw, for me? You shouldn’t have,” I coo, swaying back and forth. Michael clicks his tongue and kisses the top of my head, prying my arms off of him before taking my hand into his own, leading me to the music room. 

I’ll never get tired of the room’s ambiance, just because everything in here so aesthetically-pleasing and well-placed. It’s getting pretty dark outside, so I guess that we missed the sunset. I grin to myself as I remember when Michael and I decided to start dating, set in this very room. I can still hear that music from that day echoing in the back of my mind from time to time. It has quite the calming effect on me.

Michael pulls me onto the bench beside him, pushing up the piano’s lid and stretching his fingers across the keys before playing a few warm-up chords. Even a few harmonic notes manage to send shivers down my spine. 

“I think I’ll play some Chopin. _Mazurka_ _in_... _F Major_ ,” Michael muses, his fingers sounding out what I’m guessing is an F major chord. Nodding, I move so that my left arm is pressing against Michael’s, bodies warm and falling in breath with each other.

After Michael finishes what he calls his “arpeggio warm-up,” his hands hover carefully above a handful of keys, then land on the ivories with a resounding but wonderful vibration. I can feel the notes travel through Michael’s body, in turn leaking into my own. God, I’ll never get tired of his piano playing. 

His wrists flick dramatically as he plays the mazurka’s notes skillfully, shifting when the notes deepen or when the key changes. I bring a bent leg under my other, leaning forward to readjust as the music fills the entire room. Reverberating, the sounds from Michael’s playing are all that my mind can comprehend, making my other thoughts or anxieties feel small and insignificant by comparison.

The piece’s feel is energetic and slightly elegant, like it should be played at a ball or even a wedding. I love it, or rather, I love Michael’s take on it.

Just as I think that I’ve started to understand the piece and its tone, the song completely changes, octave lower and tempo slower. It’s softer now. The vibes I’m getting from the music match the way Michael’s body feels against mine right now, and upon casting a sideways glance at his face, I can tell that he’s really melting into this piece. 

Feeling tired as the song progresses, I lean against Michael carefully, not wanting to mess him up as his right hand reaches in front of me to dance across a new set of keys, pitch higher and the beat picking up unexpectantly. This piece is a roller coaster, though it’s a ride that I’m enjoying greatly. 

From ice cream to piano to stupid video games like _Space Invaders_ , Michael Mell and his heavensent nature never cease to amaze me. “I love you,” I whisper against his ear, voice as low as the notes that ring from his left hand. 

“I love you more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so!! school starts tomorrow, and i really hope that i’ll still be able to publish often. however, i’ll update as quickly as i can! just try to be patient aHH,, love y’all!


	56. July 21

Since Michael’s mom and dad are out of town, we use the empty house to our advantage. 

“So I turn it... now?” I ask, shrieking as I try to flip the fried egg over and some oil splashes up. Michael snorts as he shoves me aside, prying the spatula from my hand. I giggle and lean against the counter, shoulders rocking against the marble. “Don’t make fun of me, asshole. It’s not my fault that I can’t fucking cook,” I pout, sticking out my bottom lip. 

Michael clicks his tongue at me and shakes his head, shoveling at the egg. “I love my skinny white twig of a boyfriend,” he muses, taking his free hand to my rear. Sticking my tongue out, I swat Michael’s hand away and pad to the fridge, yanking the door open in search of chocolate milk. “I’m not _that_ skinny,” I mumble, disappointed when I don’t see any milk in the fridge.

I’m just glad that Michael has worked out his shifts with Mr. Johnson so that he doesn’t have to work weekends if he calls in early. 

Wordlessly, Michael lifts up his shirt with his hand, displaying the slight pudge that rests above his sweatpants. I shake my head and wind my hands around his waist, tapping against his stomach lightly. I love every inch of Michael, and that’s the truth. “Sorry that your body isn’t as smoking as mine,” I tease, pulling Michael’s shirt back down and resting my chin on his shoulder. “In my genes.”

”Your dad’s overweight, so I’m guessing that’s what the future of your superior genes holds for you,” Michael retorts, satisfied with my breakfast as he transfers the egg to a plate. 

Feigning an offended gasp, I tsk, taking my plate and grabbing a fork from a drawer. “Well, your dad is...” I start, though I can’t really come up with a valid defense. Michael hums and joins me at the kitchen island, taking my free hand in his own. “Guess what?”

”What?”

”Happy birthday eve, _cielito_ ,” he cooes, thumb brushing over my knuckles. I grin around my egg, trying to swallow without choking awkwardly. “Aw, you remembered?” I joke, gazing up at Michael fondly. 

He nods obnoxiously and rolls his eyes, placing his other hand over ours. “Of course. It’s only the second most important holiday,” Michael states matter-of-factly, and I purse my lips in disappointment. “Actually, third,” I correct him, mouth full. “Second is my  _birthday_ birthday, and first is National Corgi Day.” 

Michael chuckles softly and lifts my hand to his lips, pressing them against the back of my hand before dropping it back to the island. “That’s not a thing,” he mutters in disbelief, and I gesture broadly at him with my fork. “It totally is,” I declare, tilting my nose up at Michael. “Twentieth of April, look it up.” He probably won’t. 

“Fine, then I agree,” he comments, then lets go of my hand. “I just want to let you know in advance that I have a birthday eve present for you, too. You brought it upon yourself.” 

I feel my face go red at the way Michael says that, tongue suddenly feeling very heavy. All I can manage is a concerned “O-Oh?” 

Michael smirks darkly and rounds the counter to kiss my cheek, then shuffles back to his room. I watch him go in anticipation, but also in fear. What exactly is he planning? If my birthday eve gift was a blowjob, then who _knows_ what Michael has up his sleeve? 

After a few seconds of a heated staring contest with my egg yolk, Michael returns with a carefully wrapped present, wrapping paper slightly crumpled and torn in a few places. “I don’t know how to wrap,” Michael informs me apologetically, thrusting the package at me with a small smile. I set down my fork and finish chewing what’s in my mouth, wiping my hands on my shirt – well, _Michael’s_ shirt – before taking the gift from him. 

“Damn, this is a birthday _eve_ gift?” I inquire, turning the present over to inspect the other side. In _Sharpie_ , my name is carefully written across the gold-speckled wrapping paper, small hearts drawn around the letters. 

“I know, sorry,” Michael utters, pointing a lazy finger at the package. “I promise that the real present is better. This was gonna be your present before I decided to get you something better for your birthday. I’ve been working on this for a while, though. Behind your back. Oh, fuck, I don’t wanna give anything away. Just open it.” 

Giving Michael an amused look, I push my plate back, setting the present on the kitchen island. “Behind my back? We’ve spent, like, the entirety of the month together,” I note idly, fingers picking at the tape. Even if it’s terribly wrapped, I have a thing about not wrecking or tearing wrapping paper. Michael hums a high note as he impatiently waits for me to open the gift, tapping his finger against the island.

”The suspense is killing me, Jere,” he whines, shifting his weight to his other leg. I make it a point to move twice as slow, just for my boyfriend. 

“Dick,” Michael spits, taking my present and ripping open the wrapping before I can protest. A pile of fabric and some other things fall to the ground between us, and I lean down to pick it up. With a gasp, I realize exactly what this is.

It really puts my birthday eve present to shame.

“Michael!” I cry tearfully, frowning as I hold up a navy blue hoodie, realizing that it looks just like Michael’s. Upon further inspection, I realize that two patches have already been ironed on, though I have no clue when Michael would’ve gotten the chance to work on this. 

I duly note that I’m starting to cry, tears welling up and face going red. “M-Michael,” I whimper, lower lip quivering as I lay the article of clothing out on the kitchen table. Tracing a finger over the two patches, I sniffle unattractively. Michael just keeps smiling, glowing. 

The first patch is placed to the left of the short zipper, and the second is just below it. “You...” I try, but I’m really choking up here. One of the patches is an ice cream cone, the ice cream part a soft pink, covered in small, brightly colored sprinkles. The second is a red rose, just like the ones I got for Michael the first time I ever went to watch him perform. 

I wish that I could describe exactly how I’m feeling, but I’m just so at a loss for words. Michael is seriously the most caring and thoughtful person I think I’ve ever met, but I guess that I’m biased. 

“Sorry about the other patches,” Michael apologizes across my thoughts, pointing to the small stack of iron-on patches next to my plate. “Saw them when we were out and about and didn’t have the time to iron them on.” I choke on a chuckle, feeling a hot tear roll down my cheek. “Oh, Michael,” I peep, rolling the fabric of the hoodie between my hands. I let go of it to card through the other patches, most of which I recognize as patches that Michael had told me “would make good additions to his hoodie.” 

I guess he’s been planning this for a while, because I see the small patch that he had snagged from a tourist shop in Philadelphia while we were up there. There’s also a constellation one, along with a piano, a taxi, a pair of what looks like bowling shoes, a controller with “P2” sewn into it, and what looks like a French flag. 

“We can be matching now,” Michael offers, analyzing my silence. I probably look like a moron, sobbing over some dumb patches and a hoodie. Not probably, _definitely_. 

Swallowing a rising sob, I set down the patches and lunge at Michael, throwing my arms around his neck and burrowing my face against his chest. “You tacky d-dork,” I mumble, words indecipherable because I’m speaking into Michael’s shirt. However, Michael just pulls me closer, hands pressed against the small of my back tenderly. I let myself cry into his shirt for a few moments, rocking us back and forth as Michael moves a hand to run his fingers through my hair, shushing me. 

“That’s just your birthday eve. I was just going to give it to you tomorrow, but you did a whole birthday eve thing and I felt boring,” Michael explains lightly, and I shake my head, wiping my nose against the fabric of his shirt. “N-No!” I manage, laughing breathlessly. It’s so perfect, Micah. I love it so much.” 

With a huge grin, Michael pulls back, wiping away my happy tears with his thumbs as he holds the hoodie up to my frame, and I hold my arms out obediently. “Quit t-posing,” Michael chuckles, nodding at his projection of what I’ll look like in the hoodie. “You’re intimidating me.” 

Rolling my eyes, I stick my tongue out, grabbing the clothing and holding it tightly against my chest. “Seriously, wh-when did you have time for this?” I ask, taking in the smell of the hoodie. It smells like Michael. 

“Online shopping and you sleep like a log,” Michael admits, rocking back on his heels as he crosses his arms. “Not too difficult.” 

I hum in response and continue admiring the hoodie, even though there are only two patches ironed on right now. I’ll probably spend the rest of the day ironing on the others, but I can bask in its beauty for now. “What’s the constellation for?” I ask subtly, eyeing the patch on the counter. Michael picks it up and examines it, smiling sweetly.

”You talk in your sleep,” Michael illustrates, tilting his head slightly. “I remember waking up randomly in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, distantly hearing your mumbling. Like, I can’t really make out what you say, but there was one time where you said something like, ‘I wanna be a fuckin’ star’ or something stupid like that.” Oh. _Oh_. I guess that that’s where that weird nickname Michael used that once came from then. 

“Weirdo,” I snort, then set down the hoodie. “Stop being so thoughtful and sweet. It’s giving me cavities.”

”I’ll pay your dental bills.”

”Sending the bill right over.” 

Michael giggles and takes me back into his arms, planting a kiss on top of my head. “You should make sure you know where Christine’s taking you out to dinner, huh? When and where?” 

I falter slightly in Michael’s embrace, remembering that I let Christine drag me to a birthday dinner. “Fine,” I groan, not ready to let go of Michael yet. I just need him here a few more minutes, because Jesus Christ, I’m totally head-over-heels for Michael Mell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a prep period,, so if i’m not busy and feeling inspired,, expect an update!! thank you for your patience


	57. July 22 - Part 1

“You’re coming whether you like it or not,” Christine demands over the phone, voice solemn and low. I swallow hard and slouch a bit, heels digging into Michael’s bedroom carpet. I rest against the edge of the mattress, holding tight with my free hand. 

In all honesty, I don’t think that I really _need_ a birthday dinner

Every year on my birthday, my dad and I go to _Waffle House_ for dinner, come home, watch one of the original _Star Wars_ movies, then eat _Ben and Jerry’s Americone Dream_ before heading to bed. That’s how it’s been for the past nine years or so, even before my mom left us. The only difference is that she would usually be at work or something, and my dad would just bring his work to the house or take a day off the celebrate with me. 

Really though, I don’t need a birthday dinner at all. The fact that anyone’s going out of their way to put something like this together for me is breaking my anxiety-free streak of, like, two days. 

“Well, I don’t really like it,” I peep cautiously, rolling the fabric of Michael’s comforter between my index finger and thumb, “but I, uh, _appreciate_ the gesture.” As I close my mouth and listen to Christine reprimand me on the other end of the line, Michael strolls into his bedroom, two cans of _Mountain Dew_ in hand. I wordlessly reach my hand out for mine, taking it with an eye roll. Michael nods understandingly, sinking down beside me and pulling out his phone. 

“-and we all care about you! We miss you! School starts soon and we’ve barely hung out. I’m not blaming Michael or anything, but it’s your birthday! There’s no way we’re canceling this or whatever, Jere. You’re going to come to your birthday dinner with your friends and you’re going to enjoy it. Put Michael on the phone,” Christine orders curtly, never running out of breath. 

I raise my eyebrows and pass my phone to Michael, hand shaking slightly. He gives me a questioning glance but takes it anyway, holding it to his ear. “Hello?” 

Even from here I can make out Christine’s words, her tone that of high command and instruction. Michael’s eyes widen and he pulls his lips taut over his teeth, sucking in slightly. I chuckle to myself and open my soda, taking a sip and wiping my mouth on the back of my sleeve. 

I’m wearing my new hoodie that I haven’t taken off since Michael gave it to me. 

“Yep. For sure. Alright, will do. I know. Okay, sorry, I... No, you’re right. Uh, okay? Yeah,” Michael’s side returns, mood confused and slightly concerned. I almost feel bad for Michael, but he may as well get to know Christine as well as he can. If we ever get married, she’s going to be the best man at our wedding. 

Sipping from my can periodically, I slide off of the bed and to my feet, stretching my legs. It’s been a long summer, but I’ve probably done more exercise in the past two months than I’ve done in my entire life. 

Michael taps me on the back before I get a chance to wander around, pointing to the phone and mouthing something that I can’t make out. “What?” 

He huffs at me and frowns, pointing to the phone again. What the fuck does he want? 

When it’s clear that I have no clue what Michael’s insinuating, he sets down the phone and covers the microphone, whispering harshly, “Make up an excuse to end this call, dork. She’s, like, fuming!” Michael brings the phone back up to his ear, nodding profusely and blinking. “Of course!” he exclaims, giving me a desperate look. 

I bite back a laugh as I simply shrug, waving to him before leaving the room. 

My poor boyfriend. I’m an absolute chore. 

———

Carpooling would be a lot more fun if I didn’t have Rich yelling in one of my ears and Jenna yelling back from the front passenger seat. To my right, Michael shrinks against his seat, leaning against me supportively. 

I’m not feeling the support right now.

”All I’m thaying ith that they thould’ve thtopped at the thecond movie. It would’ve been fine if they had thtopped at the thecond movie,” Rich booms, clapping obnoxiously between each word. As I try to recover from the ringing in my ears, Jenna turns around in her seat and starts shaking her hands wildly, eyes screwed shut. “No! They had to add more movies to add to the plot and develop the characters and–“

I try to tune out the argument by pressing one of my ears against Michael’s shoulder, my eyes fluttering shut. I listen as Jake tries to calm the two down, pointing out that they’re literally arguing about a kid’s movie, but they just don’t stop.

” _Ithe Age_ wath a thinematic mathterpiethe,” Rich spits, hands gripping the back of Jake’s seat. “I can’t even believe you’d thay that.” 

Michael chuckles quietly, body shaking. “They’re always like this?” he asks quietly, and I nod swiftly, feeling that their argument is enough cause for support. “Guys, not on my birthday,” I groan, bringing a hand to my already-tired eyes. I wish that I could just go home and have a small get-together with Christine and Michael. That’d be a lot better. 

Maybe my dad, too. He actually called me to wish me a happy birthday this morning, asking if I’d be coming home for ice cream and _Star Wars_. I felt really bad, but I told him that I’d make it up to him some other time. He just said that he was glad I was making friends. 

One quick crying break later, I realized how estranged my relationship with my dad has become. There’s definitely a lot of tension there because of Mom, plus other things I guess. We’re not great communicators by nature, and he’s not sure how to balance an over-involved and an uninvolved parenting style, so there’s a conflict of interest in that aspect. Things could be worse, so I try not to think about our relationship very often.

Of course I’m choosing to do so in the car, on my way to my birthday dinner, the sound of Jenna and Rich arguing about a movie from the early 2000’s and whether or not it should’ve had sequels. 

“I’m sorry they’re like this,” Jake’s voice crosses my thoughts, though the statement is directed toward Michael. “I don’t condone these dumb arguments. My boyfriend just likes to pick fights.” Rich gasps and falls back into his seat, crossing his arms and pouting. I don’t remember opening my eyes, but they’re stuck on him now as he throws a tantrum. 

“Do not,” he growls, fingers tapping heatedly at his arms. “You’re jutht upthet becauthe you’ve never theen _Ithe Age_. I would be, too.“ 

I should’ve asked Christine to pick me up instead. 

In the rearview mirror, I can see Jake roll his eyes, narrowing them at Rich. “No one cares about _Ice Age_ , Rich. Jenna, don’t even,” he warns, and Jenna’s mouth clamps shut. “Quiet Game until we get there.” 

Rich opens his mouth to protest, but Jake holds up a hand and shoots Rich some sort of secret look. Oh my God. On my birthday? 

Michael mindlessly snakes his arm around my waist, which isn’t convenient nor is it comfortable, but I don’t mind. Trying to readjust, I lean against him, body against his own. “Sorry,” I mumble, though I’m not sure exactly what I’m apologizing for. I’m sorry that Rich and Jenna were fighting over a kid’s movie, that I just awkwardly moved against Michael, that I dragged him along... 

A lot of things, then.

However, Michael just shakes his head, planting a soft kiss on top of my hair. “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he assures me, pulling me closer. “You have friends who really care about you, and that’s, like, fucking rad. I’m so happy to even get to spend time with people who love you almost as much as I do.” 

I let myself giggle at that, forgetting about Jake’s rule. “ _Almost_ as much?”

” _Almost_ as much.” 

Maybe Michael’s right. 

———

Since Pittsburgh is only about forty-five or fifty minutes away from where we all live, it’s a convenient big city-type place to visit when we’re celebrating something. When Jake had recovered from breaking his legs in a freak bungee-jumping accident in early December, we all went up to Pittsburgh and found places to hang out. For Christine’s birthday, we came up to one of the nicer theatres and watched two performances, back-to-back. After Brooke got her SAT scores back, I think that Christine told me they came up here to grab a fancy dinner. 

I don’t know, I guess it’s just _there_. I prefer smaller cities at times, but I really do love big cities like Boston. 

“So, Birthday Boy, What did your boyfriend get you for the big day?” asks Chloe from across the table, peering at me over her menu. I tilt mine closer to me, tapping my foot against the tiled floor. “Don’t know yet,” I reply with a soft smile, shrugging. “He _did_  make me a really cute birthday eve gift, though.” 

“What the fuck ith a birthday eve?”

To my right, Michael laughs lowly and looks up from his menu. “Same,” he comments, casting a glance in my direction. “Apparently they’re a huge thing in Jeremy Heere’s life.” 

From my left, Christine clicks her tongue, squinting at me. “I knew that,” she mumbles, grip tightening on her menu. “Jeremy trivia and I’d beat anyone at this table, no question.” Everyone shares a laugh before returning to their search for a meal for dinner, occasionally making a comment about how one dish sounds gross or one sounds too good to be true. 

“When are we supposed to be giving Jeremy his presents?” Jenna asks as she sets down her menu, and I feel my face get warm. 

“Oh, you don’t have to–“

”Whenever we get back to the cars,” Christine says decisively, breaking a tortilla chip in half. I really love Mexican food, which is why Christine chose a non-sketchy looking Mexican restaurant as soon as she saw one. The salsa’s been good, and my _Mr. Pibb_ is safisfactory. 

Michael absently knocks his foot against mine, finger running down a page of his menu before it lands on what I’m guessing he’s going to order. “I love spinach quesadillas, but I’m always afraid they don’t drain the spinach,” he argues with himself, shaking his head in disappointment. Brooke, who’s sitting between Chloe and Rich, holds up an agreeing finger. 

“Fact.” 

Rich stands up and shuffles around Jake, saying something about how he needs to use the bathroom. “If that dude cometh back, I want fith tacoth,” he informs the table, then leaves for the restroom. Jake watches him go before turning his attention back to the menu, closing it. 

“I feel out of the loop,” Jake admits, looking up at Michael. “So how exactly did you meet Jeremy again? I’ve never seen you at our school.” 

Michael raises his eyebrows, swallowing a sip of his drink and setting it back down. “Oh, because I’m homeschooled,” he responds, setting his hands on the table. “I work at this ice cream stand called _Tastyland_. It’s in downtown Greensburg, can’t miss it. Well, you can, and you probably do, but now you can’t, because I said you can’t.” 

Jake snorts and straightens his collar, checking that the shirt is buttoned up to his chin. It would look weird on anyone else, but Jake’s height and confidence open many fashion doors for him. 

“What a shame, Jeremy hasn’t taken any of you to _Tastyland_? It’s good,” Brooke remarks, dragging a chip through a bowl of salsa. Michael hums and stirs his drink with his straw, choosing not to respond. 

Looking up at Brooke, I realize how close she’s sitting to Chloe, arms pressed against each other. Sure, best friends like being close, I guess. However, I haven’t heard anything or any complaints about their friendship since that time they both called, so maybe things have changed for them. Whatever, it’s not my business.

I flinch as what I can only assume are glass plates clatter behind me, loud and drawing my attention to the overwhelming amount of noise in this restaurant.

I’m really missing those nights of _Star Wars_ and ice cream right now.

My table starts a conversation about one thing or another, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Is it weird that I have so many people in one group? Would we get in trouble for being a bunch of teenagers in Pittsburgh at seven at night? We usually don’t come out this late, or at least I don’t. 

The waiter returns with a notepad in hand, gauging the size of the table and asking us first if we’d be paying on separate bills. After a lot of confusion and pointing, the table decides that we won’t be on the same tab, but that everyone has to chip in for my dinner. It’s a struggle, and my stomach turns over as I realize that the server probably hates us, but we eventually get our orders in and he leaves. Rich comes back and makes sure that someone got his fish tacos, and all is well. 

Momentarily. 

It’s really dumb how much I’m missing my dad right now. I literally never think about him, as insensitive as that sounds, but I guess I just feel really bad. I mean, like, the man’s wife left him, he doesn’t have any friends, no discernible personality... His son’s a bit of a disappointment, too, so he’s got that going for him. 

“Hey,” Michael whispers beside me, a hand on my shoulder. “You good?”

Nod and smile. 

A few minutes later, Christine asks the same question. 

Nod and smile. 

She’s not convinced. 

“I lied,” she announces, standing up and pulling me up with her. “I wanna give Jere his present right now. We’ll be back.” 

Michael acknowledges us with a concerned and slightly envious glare, though the look passes when someone at the table brings up the concept of those cheesy “Santa in Hawaii” postcards that grandmothers just love to send during the holidays. 

I silently let Christine pull me through the restaurant and out the door, trying to ignore the hot stares from every other person in the building. 

“What’s wrong, Heere?” Christine demands, yanking me down into a bench next to her. I look at my hands and shrug, shaking me head. “It’s nothing, really, Chris... You don’t need to worry,” I promise her, but Christine’s not having it today. Or any other day. 

That’s something that people don’t give Christine enough credit for, honestly. She’s so determined all the time, and as if that’s not enough, she can always tell when something’s bothering me.

Cracking, I sigh lean forward, elbows propped up on my legs. “Fine. Just thinking about my dad,” I tell her softly, clasping my hands together. “Don’t know where it came from, but it’s here. I feel bad because, like, he just wants to spend time with his son, and I’m always out and about. Even on my birthday. How’s he gonna survive when I go to college? The house is going to, like, implode.” 

Christine opens her mouth to speak, but her gaze shifts to someone behind me. I turn around and look up, making out Michael’s face in the dimming light of the restaurant’s outside lamps. 

“This is a private conversation,” Christine states blandly, but Michael’s standing put.

”Uh, we should probably go inside,” I suggest, moving to stand up. However, Michael pushes me back down, then wedges himself next to me. 

“Really Jere, you’re acting sad. You can’t be sad on your birthday,” Michael points out, and Christine interjects, “Or ever! You’re never allowed to be sad. Not ever. Never ever.”

”Well, it’s okay to be upset sometimes–“

” _Never_.” 

I chuckle at the light banter and inhale sharply, looking up at the buildings across the street from us. “I just don’t know why he puts up with it,” I further, trying not to be selfish. “He’s really passive, and even though I’m glad, he’s kind of turned into a pushover. That’s why he doesn’t have any work friends or whatever, honestly. Makes me sad to think that he either hangs around the house for fun or goes grocery shopping. Sad, I know.” 

Now that I say these things out loud, they sound really dumb. I feel guilty for dragging these two outside, but Christine and Michael seem eager to understand and help out the best they can, as usual.

”That’s valid,” Michael encourages me, holding me tightly against his side with an outstretched arm. “Your dad loves you a lot. He values your security and privacy, and–“

”Oh, yeah, Jere. Your dad’s really sweet. He’s happy that you have friends,” Christine interrupts, not trying to be rude but rather add to the conversation. Michael nods his agreement, rubbing my arm. “Absolutely. He’s a big softie, and as long as you make it up to him, it’s okay to do this for yourself,” he notes, and I smile weakly. 

They aren’t wrong. 

Christine throws an arm around me too, “subtly” pulling against Michael’s grip. “Just make sure you apologize, because–“

”No, don’t apologize,” Michael laughs breathlessly. “It’s your birthday. You can feel bad, but your friends wanted to do something nice for you! You shouldn’t apologize for that.”

”Well, he wouldn’t apologize because of not spending his birthday with him, but for, like, everything. Just in general. Make sure he knows you’re working on that father-son thingy. He’d appreciate that,” Christine elaborates, and Michael hums thoughtfully before nodding. “Well-said.” 

I grin at the two and pull them closer, hugging them simultaneously. I’m glad that they’re here in my life, honestly. Christine and Michael are such great people, and meeting them has turned my life around completely. 

The universe has a plan for me, and I’m really following it on a step-by-step, day-by-day basis. 


	58. July 22 - Part 2

Michael and I wave to the two cars that take turns backing out of the driveway, headlights glowing and horns honking in staccato. We’ll probably get a noise complaint come tomorrow morning. 

“That was fun,” Michael comments with a smile that catches the light from the moon, a house key in his free hand and two birthday bags in the other. I split four between my hands, though one is a wrapped package instead of a bag. Rich and Jake decided to get me a joint gift, which was really sweet and very much like them.

I have a newfound appreciation for my friends and my “friends.”

I nod and slip past Michael when he gets the door open, immediately kicking off my shoes. “That was _exhausting_ ,” I groan, trudging to the kitchen and setting down my gifts. I’m a firm believer in not opening presents in front of people, even though Christine forced me to open hers: an oversized black sweater that read “I CAN’T, I HAVE REHEARSAL.”

I love Christine. 

“Oh?” Michael asks from the door, locking it and taking off his one shoes. I lean against the counter, ledge digging into my back, and frown at him, nodding. “Yeah, sleepy. I love them, but, like, socializing is hard. Even with them,” I admit with a drawn out yawn, pointing to my face as proof of my exhaustion. My eye bags are probably defined as fuck right now. 

Michael hums as he joins me in the kitchen, placing my presents on the island. “You can’t go to bed without opening your presents,” he points out with a smile, shifting the bags in my direction. 

With an over-exaggerated groan, I take one of the bags and reach my hand in, giving Michael an irritated look. “It’s _my_ birthday, and if I don’t wanna, then–“ My vocabulary is cut off as I retract my hand from the bag, and I stare at what Jenna got me. 

“What is that?”

I pucker my lips and let them quiver dramatically, pretending to sniffle as I’m overcome with love and appreciation. In my hand, I hold one of those customized phone case things, like the ones you can go online and make yourself. Jenna made me a phone case with various pictures of her and I, candid images of me and some of our other friends, and lots of group photos that we’ve done throughout the year. 

Part of me feels horrible, especially because I consider Jenna one of my “friends.” I don’t know a ton about her, and I know that she tries really hard to be my friend. Yet here I am, wondering if she’s just an acquaintance or if she’s a close buddy. 

Acquaintances wouldn’t make you a custom phone case. 

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” Michael gasps, plucking the phone from my grasp and studying the pictures. As he traces the images, he chuckles to himself, shaking his head periodically. “You look like a fucking dork in all of these. God, I fucking love you.” 

“Oh, fuck you.”

Eager to see my other gifts, I pull another bag close to me, dumping out its contents. “This one’s from Brooke,” I read the small name scribbled at the top of an envelope that falls out of the bag.

I ease open the envelope and pull out the card carefully, not wanting to tear the letter or anything. My chest overflows with warmth as I scan the homemade card, a cute drawing of myself splayed across the front. I sniffle and hold up the card to Michael, pointing to the drawing. Brooke loves watercolor and calligraphy, and homemade cards have been her forte since seventh grade. 

“Michael!” I pout, reveling in the love and care of my friends. Michael’s head shoots up from the phone case, eyes narrowing as I shake the paper. 

“Brooke fucking drew a picture of me!” I exclaim, laughing breathlessly as I pull the card close to my chest. Something about opening these gifts and going to the restaurant with Michael and my friends has sort of woken me up.

A lot of pent up emotions are starting to surface, and for some reason, I’m not feeling all that anxious.

Usually when there’s a surplus of emotions polluting my mind, it’s common for me to go into a sort of panicky state for several days at a time. I wonder what the fuck is wrong with me and start worrying about my future and settling down and finding a job. I grieve over the chance that my friends would leave me or desert me in times of need. I cry and sob and become really distant during those periods, which I now consider a bit of a detox. 

However, this isn’t an anxiety-inducing amount of emotion that I can’t handle or anything. 

In fact, I can count the times on one hand where I’ve felt more loved and cared for in my life. Those times include a Christmas spent with my mother back when I was nine, a heart-to-heart I had with a teacher in fifth grade, and of course the entirety of my relationship with Michael. There have been a few times I’ve gotten really deep with Christine, but my other hand is reserved for her. 

It feels a bit like I’m experiencing tunnel vision, like I should be panicking for some reason but I’m not. I only deal with these kinds of symptoms when I’m panicking, but I’m perfectly calm right now. 

That should be a bad thing. 

“Jere?”

My head tilts up to gaze at Michael, whose eyes catch the glare of his kitchen light. I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face as I flutter my eyes tiredly at him, shifting my card to my right hand and reaching my other hand out to his. 

With a reflective grin, Michael takes my hand in his own, setting my new phone case on the kitchen island. “You good?” he asks nervously, furrowing his brow. I quickly nod my response, absently running my thumb along his knuckles as I open the card with my other hand. It’s just some cheesy pun about birthdays being like a mortgage, which I don’t even think that Brooke understood, but she wrote it down so who am I to jump to conclusions? 

“You look so happy right now,” Michael’s soft breathing comes, and I can feel his smile from where I’m standing, staring at the drawing of me again. 

Without looking up, I smile and nod at my card. “I am,” I state with certainty, actually believing it. Michael makes me incredibly happy, but these gifts and just spending time with my friends has served as a sort of solidifying factor in my emotional life. “Don’t get my wrong,” I quickly tack on, looking up and setting down the card. “You make me incredibly happy, too. It’s just... surreal, I guess, getting this kind of recognition and appreciation from my friends. And my ‘friends,’ too.” 

Michael lets his tense stature fade into a much calmer one, chuckling lightly and holding my hand in both of his. “I understand,” is all he says before nodding toward the gift on the table next to Brooke’s bag. 

I take my hands back and remove the excess tissue paper to find a small set of various keychains. There’s a handmade one strung with beads, a Mario stitched keychain, one of those plastic ones you can order and get printed online of Brooke and I in our art class, and a small Shakespeare head. Have I gushed about how much I love my friends yet? 

“Cute!” Michael notes as I flip through each keychain, fingers tapping against the material as I do. I nod swiftly and put them down, moving on to Chloe’s present. 

Okay, she just got me a card. That’s all good. 

Rich and Jake’s present is basically everything that I’d expect them to get me. As I unwrap the gift, my face turns a bright red. Of course they’d give me a set of handcuffs for my birthday. There’s also a card that tells me how happy they are to be my friend, how I’ve grown, how gay I am... 

I don’t really know what I expected. 

Something about the level of thoughtfulness put into these presents feels foreignly intimate. I’m not sure what vibes I’m getting, but I feel like I should be a bit uncomfortable. However, I’m just not. 

“They really put my gifts to shame,” Michael finally comments while I’m messing around with Brooke’s keychains, and I let my eyes flash up to his face momentarily. He seems tired, yet he’s buzzing with energy. Anticipation. _Something_. It’s not like Michael’s jealous or upset or anything, but rather really happy for me. 

I’m really happy for me. 

I curiously quirk an eyebrow at him, smirking warmly. I love that boy. “You have more for me?” I inquire, remembering the hoodie and the patches. He’s really already given me enough. 

Michael lets go of my hand and rubs his together, baring his teeth in excitement. His happiness is gorgeously contagious. 

“Of course I do. Stay here,” Michael instructs me, bounding to his room at an unbelievable sleep. I giggle and return my attention to the keychains, laying them down on Michael’s countertop before sighing and pressing my head to the granite. 

Today has been absolutely surreal. 

A few minutes of silent, wistful thinking, I lift my head up to look at Michael when he returns, a plastic grocery sack in hand. I eye it cautiously before shifting my gaze back to Michael’s face, melting at that huge smile.

“Whatcha got?” I coo, standing back up and rocking on my heels. Michael groans as he drops the bag to his feet, glaring at me and scoffing. “Bitch, close your eyes,” he laughs, and I join him as I throw a hand over my face. God, he’s such a dork. I adore him. 

“Okay, uh,” Michael starts, and I can hear the rustling of his bag as he rummages through it. “There are only two things in here, so I’m not all that sure as to why I needed a bag...” 

I let a chuckle rake my body before I feel Michael’s hand on my own, pulling it from my eye and into his own. He slides a long sheet of paper – an envelope, upon further inspection – into my hand, whistling to tell me I can open my eyes.

A small blue envelope rests in my hand, my name drawn across the top in Michael’s writing. I grin up at him as I open the letter, wondering that it could be and then realizing that it’s probably just a birthday card.

However, as I reach into the envelope with a searching hand and outstretched fingers, I find two small slips of paper at the bottom of the envelope instead. 

Heart racing, my gaze fixated on Michael, never wavering. He smirks expectantly and eyes the paper, nodding his pride.

What the fuck?  

My eyes finally tear from Michael’s features, focusing on two slips of white paper. In small, black text, I can make out a few words, a date, and seat numbers. 

“Oh my God,” I barely breathe, hands shaking hard just upon reading the words. I reread the print on the ticket to make sure I’m comprehending everything correctly. My eyes are suddenly incredibly wet, my nose runnier, my voice thick. “Oh my God. 

Michael moves closer to me, tilting my head up with his finger. I can’t help but almost break down as I meet his gaze, soft and ecstatic. “How?” I barely manage to choke. “Why?” 

Classy, Jeremy.

”I love you,” Michael professes with a small laugh, moving his hands to my cheeks. “Made a few sacrifices, been saving up, talked it out with my parents. Arrangements. Lots of convincing. Promising to make grocery runs and do chores around the house until I’m, like, forty.” 

My blurry eyes tear the printed tickets apart, analyzing every curve, every line, every space. 

**DESTINATION  
**

**LATROBE TO NYC**

Some other portions of the ticket talk about seat numbers and arrival times, but I can’t even summon the mental capacity to process those letters and numbers. My mind is buzzing with numbness right now, softened by Michael’s gift, which was really the icing on the cake. 

I don’t realize that Michael has pulled the other gift out of the bag. 

“Oh, and this,” he breaks across my thoughts, holding up a small ring box. I use my free hand to cover my mouth, the tears that were already threatening to spill from my eyes starting to leak. 

Is Michael asking me to marry him? I’m too young! What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? 

Seeing the fear and concern in my face, Michael quickly shakes his head and opens up the box, pointing to the small ring that fits neatly into its felt slot. “No, I, uh, ordered it from that jewelry place we went to in Philadelphia,” he informs me gently, pulling the ring out and holding his hand open for my own. Without thinking at all, I shove my hand at Michael, mouth agape and quivering as he slides the ring onto my finger. 

Actually, had Michael asked my to marry him, I probably would’ve said yes. 

“Thought the customization part was cool.” I notice the color of the gem, which reminds me of the stone that Michael said matched my eyes. This is the same one.

How much did this cost and where did Michael get this money from?

First of all, he bought us both a flight to New York. That doesn’t even include lodging and food and all that jazz. I’m guessing that we’ll be going to Broadway or some musical showings, so where’s our ticket money? 

I should be worried, but I’m just so happy. 

“Michael,” I choke, unattractively coughing up mucus as I lunge at my boyfriend. 

I‘ve never had such a wonderful birthday in the entirety of my existence, and the fact that u get to share it with Michael is amazing. These gifts? My friends? God, I’m so content right now. 

“Happy birthday, Heere.” 

“I love you, Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so so so sorry for waiting like a week to update. started school last thursday and i haven’t had the time, energy, or inspo 
> 
> sorry for this shitty chapter :,) 
> 
> i promise it isn’t over yet!!


	59. July 23

Due to our love of expensive escapades, Michael actually has to go to work today. I’d rather him stay home and just be within my line of vision while I finish whatever assignments I have to before the start of my senior year. 

Holy shit, my _senior year_.

Looking back, this is all feeling a bit surreal. When I was first starting high school, I remember dreading every day. Waking up in the morning was painful, having to attend classes and interact with others was pure agony. I felt like I wouldn’t live long enough to see the start of my junior year. 

Yet here I am, senior year, feeling more alive than ever.

Time sort of passes you by when you’re unsure of the direction of life in which you’re going, and as I stand here pulling at Michael’s sleeve, begging him to stay, it all sort of hits me at once, sudden and heavy. 

“Trips to New York aren’t free, Jere,” Michael reminds me calmly, prying my now-idle grip from the back of his shirt. “Besides, you have work to catch up on, _cielito_.” Michael catches my wrist in his hand and pulls me against him, hugging me tightly and planting a kiss in my hair. 

I just feel heavy and sort of numb. 

With a content sigh, Michael lets go of me and holds my limp hand, running his thumb over my knuckles. “Hey,” he mumbles, and I flash my eyes up to meet his gaze. 

He has the most gorgeous brown eyes.

”Hm?” I hum in response, starting to feel guilty. I shouldn’t be upset when I have so many amazing things going for me, right? I have a loving boyfriend and amazing friends and I’m going to New York soon and life is just really great right now. 

Why the fuck do I feel so empty all of a sudden? 

My attention refocuses itself as Michael’s figure becomes less blurry, though when did it start fuzzing around the edges like that?

“I love you.” 

Michael loves me. _Michael_ loves _me_. Some things really seem too good to be true. I have no right to feel bad right now. 

“I love you more.”

———

After helping myself to breakfast from Michael’s pantry, I decide to walk home so that I can work on my reading assignment without being distracted by Michael’s house. 

As I skip cracks in the pavement, my mind dances with anxious thoughts and honestly a bit of a numb feeling. 

God, it’s my _senior year_. 

Something about the fact that my adult life is starting sooner than I had realized is incredibly nerve-wracking, painful, mind-pollutingly horrifying.

It’s not like I haven’t had enough time to think about it, per se, but rather the fact that I’m realizing all of this at such an awful time. Hell, I’m supposed to be happy, aren’t I? My boyfriend is the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful person I know, I’m playing a lead in my theatre group’s play, sign-up for the fall season of the school’s theatre club opens up soon, and I have such amazing friends. 

Why do I feel so empty and alone? 

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the negative thoughts. I’m not alone at all, really; all of my friends are starting their senior year, too. I’m sure that they’re just as terrified as I am, if not more. At least I have my major in mind and have started my applications. 

I really shouldn’t be that scared. 

Schedules for the semester come out next week, and even though my load will be fairly light this year, I still can’t help but think that I’ll probably fail academically. What if I fail all of my classes? What if I don’t make the cast list for the plays I audition for? What if I can’t join clubs and fall behind? 

What if Michael realizes what a failure I am and leaves me? 

I won’t get into a good college. My friends will abandon me. So correction, then. I _will_ be alone. 

When did my breathing get so fast? When did my hands start shaking so hard? 

With a steadying breath, I look up to see where I’m at. Looking back, I notice that I walked right past my house, and across the street, one of my neighbors gives me a worried look as he waters the garden box around his mailbox. 

“Y’okay, Heere?” he croaks, lifting a warm hand to greet me. 

Jesus Christ, I’m a complete and utter embarrassment to myself. 

“Y-Yeah!” I call back, biting the inside of my cheek as I toy with the idea of either turning around to go back to my house and chancing looking like an idiot or just continue walking. Maybe I could visit Michael at work. 

No, wait. I _have_ to finish my summer work. “Just, ah, thought I saw something I dropped yesterday,” I lie with a nervous grin, then shove my hands in my pockets as I turn on my heel and scrape against the concrete as I shuffle back to my driveway. 

I think the guy’s name is Mr. Fitzgerald or something like that, but I watch lowly as he just shrugs and turns his attention back to his watering. 

Thank God. 

I look up at my driveway and notice that my dad’s car is parked there in front of the garage, which means one of two things: he’s either working from home or taking a day off. 

The two were pretty much interchangeable. 

I’m still a bit shaken from my racing thoughts, though now I’m mindlessly carding through memories of Michael and I’s summer in hopes of erasing any negativity up there.

“Good morning, Private,” I hear my dad boom from the fridge as I slip into the house, quiet and careful not to scuff the floor. I hum a tired reply and close the door behind me, noting the surprisingly clean state of the house. “Everything okay?” I ask cautiously, and my dad closes the fridge and peeps his head around at me. 

He’s clean-shaven. 

“Better than okay,” he beams, grinning widely. I suddenly really miss his beard thing. “I won a cruise!” 

A cruise? “A cruise?”

My dad nods proudly as he crosses his arm over his chest, wife-beater sporting a stereotypical stain over his heart. “We had a thing a thing at work the other day, like an auction or something. Well, not an auction, because I didn’t pay for it–“

”A raffle?”

”Yeah, that,” he responds gruffly, then sighs contently, eyes glistening in the dim kitchen light. “Isn’t that great? Unfortunately it’s just for one person, plus I have to wait until this winter. It’s Alaska!” 

Alaska? “Alaska?”

”Alaska!”

My father’s enthusiasm isn’t usually contagious, but I’ll smile at anything if it pulls me out of my mood. Besides, Dr. Yang always tells me to put on the expression you want to experience, because “expression equals experience.” 

Nodding, I join my dad in the kitchen, idly leaning against the doorframe of the pantry. I’m not hungry, but I’ll admit that I eat when I’m bored more often than when I’m hungry. Or stressed. Honestly, I’m always hungry and bored and stressed, so, as Michael would say, “that’s a mood.” 

“You don’t seem excited for me,” I hear my dad’s slightly less enthusiastic voice from behind me, faltering. Great, another thing to feel bad about. 

“Oh, I am!” I correct myself, spinning around and widening my eyes at him. I really miss his facial hair. He looks even more naked than when he forgets to wear pants. “I am, sorry. Just... I’m just admiring how clean the house looks. You shaved?” 

I guess I made up for my lack of excitement, because the light returns to my dad’s features are quickly as it had left. “I have a date!” 

Something gets caught in my throat. 

Sorry, a _date_? Since when does my dad get out of the house long enough to meet a woman? Who would even find all of that attractive? 

“Oh?” 

“Oh!”

No offense to my dad, but he’s not exactly dating material. Really, he’s pretty heavy-set (not that there’s anything wrong with that), balding, brutish, almost like a caveman. He’s lazy and divorced, middle-aged and not especially talented. 

So again, a _date_?

”Cool,” I decide unsurely, sucking in my teeth. “When is it then?” 

My dad lets out a hearty laugh and claps his hands together, forehead reflecting the kitchen light.

Another thing, I get my oily skin from him. 

“Tonight, so I need you out of the house,” he jokes, turning around to resume his search for food in the fridge. “My boss is letting me work from the laptop today, so I have time to clean up. I shaved. Did the dishes. Figured that since my son’s dating now, I may as well too. I have to get over your mother, whether it’s with a rebound or whoever.”

Is that what this is about? Something about his situation is ringing a bell...

Michael.

Michael and his ex-boyfriend.

Michael dating me.

My heart starts thumping loudly in my chest, racking my body.

Oh my God. Am I a rebound?

“Jere? You’re scarin’ me, Lieutenant. You look like a ghost,” my dad warns me, though it sounds more like a distant mumble. My vision’s starting to blur, focusing in on a drawer behind my dad. Nothing special, but it’s a _focus_ point and I need to _focus_ on it.

Am I a rebound? 

It seems like forever ago, but that letter that Michael wrote to me around the beginning of the summer unconsciously haunts me from time to time, and right now, I’m overly conscious of it. 

He was in a relationship with a guy for a long time. They broke up. He started dating me. 

I suddenly snap back into being, blinking hard. Okay, now I’m just being ridiculous. A _rebound_? 

Rebounds don’t get to go on trips to New York. They don’t get nice rings and hoodies with special patches from their boyfriends. Alright, I guess that that’s reassurance enough.

I’m not a rebound.

“Y-Yeah,” I manage unsurely, furrowing my brow as I cast my gaze down at the tiled floor. “Yeah. Sorry, I’m sorry. So, uh, a date?” 

When my dad doesn’t say anything, I feel my face getting hot, but I’m too nervous to look up at him. 

“I... I’ll just go to my room–“

”Hey.” 

It may just be me imagining things, but the way my dad says that word breaks my heart. My chest is actually aching at the dialogue, causing my throat to go dry and numbing my entire upper body. My feet are glued to the ground, along with my eyes. 

I feel like I’m going to cry, but my eyes are too dry. 

“I’m sorry,” I mutter inaudibly, more of a hoarse whisper than an apology. What am I even apologizing for? I don’t want to feel like this. God, make it _stop_. I hate being a teenager with stupid fucking emotions that I can’t control. I hate being so weak. I hate being a slave to my mind and my anxiety. 

What am I even anxious about right now? 

Without looking up, I hear my dad sigh shakily, followed by the padding of his feet as he walks closer to me. “Jeremy,” he tries weakly, and I see the toes of his slippers grace the top of my line of vision. However, he doesn’t continue, but rather sways on the spot awkwardly, his feet fidgeting. 

“I’m sorry,” I repeat again, stronger this time. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.” 

I can’t even control what I’m saying now. What am I sorry for? I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? 

My dad debates his options in terms of how to approach this situation. For one, he could talk to me, ask me about it. We could have a father-son bonding hour or some shit. On the other hand, he could leave me here like this, tears threatening to tear my seams apart, already leaking from stiches I’ve been sewing into my skin for years. 

Judging from my dad’s wary energy, I’m going to hazard to guess that we’re going with option number two here. 

A few silent minutes pass, feeling more like years than mere seconds, and I decide that I should probably go have a meltdown in my bedroom by myself. God, a few hours without Michael and I’m an absolute sob story. This is just pitiful. 

I move to step past my dad and out the kitchen, keeping my eyes trained on the yellowing floor, but he sidesteps to block my path. At that, I finally look up, eyes twitching from lack of moisture and aching as much as my chest.

I could always pass off my state as allergies, if Michael so happens to ask.

”’S’cuse me,” I groan, trying to walk around my dad again. However, he stops me again, arms shooting up to my shoulders to square me and steady my posture. 

“Jeremy,” he repeats from earlier, and now that I can see his face, I feel even worse.

I make his life a living hell, don’t I?

“What?” I choke dryly, trying to swallow my emotions before they surface in front of someone else. My dad pulls the corners of his lips to his ears, his smile sincere and concerned. “You know, when you first told me about Michael...”

”Dad,” I mumble, embarrassed, trying to counter the blow by taking a sure step. 

He stops me again.

”Seriously, Jere,” my dad chuckles, hands back on my shoulders. “When you first told me about Michael and you, I was skeptical. I’m not, like, against my son being gay or whatever, but I didn’t know him. I was scared. Terrified. I didn’t want you to be in a situation you weren’t comfortable in. I was afraid you’d be an emotional wreck because of the building guilt from all of your relationship issues or something.”

He pauses to take a breath, realization flashing across his face as he takes in my confused expression. “But I shouldn’t have worried,” my dad adds with a nod, thumbs digging into my collarbones. “Because, like, Michael is such a good young man. I’ve never seen you so happy and emotionally stable. You used to always be sulking around the house, and I never see you here anymore. And I’m _happy_ about that.”

I hang on to every word out of my dad’s mouth, anxiety transitioning into general worrying and self-doubt. Normal stuff. My dad may not be good for much, but grounding me is one of his few talents. 

“Y-Yeah,” I agree quietly, shrugging. He’s absolutely right, though; I’ve never been happier. Michael’s been the most stable yet spontaneous factor in my life for a long time, and I’m reaping the many benefits every single day. I couldn’t thank the universe enough for what it’s done for me, blessing me with Michael’s presence and his constant gift of living and being here for me. 

I won’t ever be able to repay this debt I owe to the universe, and the fact that my dad knows that without me telling him about it is just a confirmation of how firm of a relationship I hold with Michael. 

“There’s that color,” Dad grins, tapping my cheek gently before letting his arms fall back to rest at his sides. “Everything’s going to be okay.” 

I think about the first day I met Michael. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” I echo idly. 

I think about kissing Michael at that piano competition, not knowing who I was or what we were but still being okay with it. 

“Everything’s going to be okay.” 

Everything’s going to be okay.

I still have time for those assignments, my friends won’t abandon me, Michael will stick around for a little while longer, I’ll get those parts in plays I audition for, and my grades will be enough to get me by. 

Who knew that the prospect of a date with may or may not even exist yet has changed my dad into this person who can suddenly listen to Jeremy and tell what’s on his mind without even interrogating him first? 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry for this late late update!! i hope people still read this and enjoy it!


	60. July 25

“We start school on the seventh,” I inform Michael, tapping the center console separating us. “I don’t really need my boyfriend taking me to get school supplies though.” 

Unfortunately, Michael refuses to be reasoned with. 

Steadfast in his willingness to basically be a sugar daddy, Michael hushes me as he pulls to a stop at a traffic light. “Reason being you’re broke and I’m basically a millionaire,” he boasts, sticking his tongue out at the rear view mirror as he continues to ignore my pleas. I honestly feel really bad for making him pay for my _school supplies_ , but he’s not wrong; I’m pretty much broke. I wasted all of my bar mitzvah money on video games and new shoes (since Christine decided to force me to update my choice in attire last year). 

However, the truth remains that I’m poor and Michael’s not. By that logic, _Michael_ has to buy my supplies, because, you know, my dad totally couldn’t lend me money or anything. 

“Michael,” I whine begrudgingly, pressing my back into the seat. “Your money’s gonna run out. You just spent a ton of money on a fucking ring for me, not to mention the _trip to New York_ and the _hotel_ and–“

The light shifts colors, and Michael’s heavy-footed driving causes me to lurch forward. 

Between my episode from two days ago and now this, I’m starting to feel my guilt catch up with me. I know that I shouldn’t have doubted my relationship with Michael in the first place, especially after everything he’s done for me. Now he’s buying about twenty dollars worth of school supplies. 

The boy doesn’t even _go_ to public school. 

“Jere, hon, I love you but you _gotta_ stop freaking out like this,” Michael reprimands softly, moving his hand over mine on the console. “I pay for these things because I can. I’m messing around when I call you broke, but seriously, I don’t mind. I love you, and that’s how I express my affection.” His tone is gentle but I know that he’s irritated, and that makes me feel even worse. 

Calm the fuck down, Jeremy. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I know,” I lie, biting my bottom lip until the pain overwhelms my mouth. “I’m sorry.” 

Michael hums and pulls into the _Walmart_ parking lot, narrowly missing a car that speeds past a stop sign. “Really, _cielito_. I love you.”

”I know, but–“

”Hey! I love you!” 

With a defeated sigh, I cross my arms, looking out my window instead of at Michael. 

“I love you too.”

———

“I’ve been shopping for school supplies before, dumbass,” Michael snorts, picking up a blue binder. “Gotta stay organized in the homeschool business. I think you should get this one.” 

With three packages of the cheapest college-ruled paper I can find in hand, I roll my eyes, dropping my purchases into the cart. “No, I don’t need new binders,” I counter, taking the binder from Michael and sliding it back onto the shelf. He pushes me aside and grabs the binder, then two more in the same style. “Too bad,” he declares, furrowing his brow at me. “If I’m buying, I get to decide what you get.”

Before I can stop myself, I’m mumbling something about how dominant Michael is. 

And, of course, by nature’s laws and hatred of Jeremy, he hears me. 

“Sorry, speak up a bit. I’m kinda deaf in my right ear,” he teases me, leaning closer. I swallow hard and avoid his eyes, momentarily forgetting about the pent-up guilt broiling in my stomach. “I didn’t say anything,” I defend myself hotly, blowing out my cheeks.

Michael lifts a hand to my cheek, thumb tracing the back of my ear. My eyes nervously trace the aisle, and thank God no one’s here right now. “M-Michael,” I scold him in a whisper, hands against the shelf behind me. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“What’d you say, Jeremy?” 

He just doesn’t ever stop, Jesus Christ. 

“I s-said that your dominant nature never fucking dies down,” I spit harshly, voice hushed and face bright red. “Damnit, Michael, stop it!” 

This is so embarrassing, though being the horny teenage boy I am, I’m not gonna lie by saying that I don’t find it pretty hot. “Michael,” I growl in a warning tone, continuing my search up and down the aisle. “Someone’s gonna see us.” 

“So?”

I continue shoving Michael unsuccessfully, too aware of the blood draining from my face to elsewhere in my body. Undeterred, Michael plants a small kiss right beneath my ear, lips soft and heavy against my skin. God, I hate him sometimes. “Michael, j-just wait until the car,” I urge irritably, choking back a moan as he intentionally wedges his knee between my legs. 

“Why?” he whispers, trailing kisses along my cheek. “No one’s watching.” I scoff and start to give up my struggle, accepting that this is how Michael is and that if someone passes by, he’ll probably stop. _Probably_. 

“Not right now, they’re not,” I groan, rolling my eyes but running my hands up Michael’s back and to his neck. “This isn’t o-okay, we’re gonna get arrested.” 

“Your dick’s giving you away, _mahal_. Let’s check out and take this to the car,” Michael suggests in a low whisper, hot air tickling my neck before he pulls back and returns to his spot by the cart. 

I still can’t breathe and I can still feel the weight of his kisses pinning me against the shelves of my friendly neighborhood _Walmart_. 

———

Frantic hands pull at fabric as Michael and I struggle to continue making out in the back of his car. 

Kissing Michael isn’t all about my libido, honestly, though that’s just an added bonus. No, kissing Michael also helps me release pent-up energy, anxiety, and even some doubtful uncertainty. Michael controlling every movement, melting into my kisses, watching him come apart just from what I can do with my mouth...

It’s intoxicating. 

“Jeremy,” Michael huffs in a groan, palms pressing into my hipbones as I roll them into his grip. Poetic, I know. 

“Michael,” I breathe, light and desperate. Michael somehow already managed to take off my shirt, undo my belt, and help me kick off my shoes. My progress includes Michael’s glasses being shoved onto my own face and Michael’s hair being a bit out of place here and there. 

Not sure why I’m wearing Michael’s glasses, but Michael convinced me that I look “twenty-seven percent more ‘bangable’” in them, so they stay.

”Mph, God,” Michael moans, tongue tracing my own as he pushes it down to the floor of my mouth. I shift slightly, letting my fingers tug lightly at his hair as he deepens the kiss, pushing me into the seat. I pull back when I can’t share air with him anymore, only to have him come down on me yet again. 

So again, kissing my boyfriend isn’t all about satisfying my nonexistent sex life. For me, it’s more about that connection, that bond. Kissing Michael helps me relax, taking away my anxious breathing and filling my lungs with his own confident, steady air. I’m not worrying about college applications being accepted or my friends abandoning me or me failing all of my classes or one-sided financial stress between Michael and I right now. 

It’s just me, Michael, his car, his right hand resting harshly over my pants and against my crotch, and these glasses that make my eyes water whenever I venture to catch a glimpse of Michael’s heated face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter is -2773 words long but like :,)) 
> 
> i’m really grateful for whoever has made it this far bc how? chapter 60?? that’s absolutely insane. i’ll finish this soon, and i hope i can find more inspo and time to write. thank you and sorry for no plot progression!!


	61. July 30

Michael stops working at _Tastyland_ tomorrow, so in order to commemorate all of our shared memories at this ice cream stand, I actually leave the house on this Thursday morning to come with him to work. When I’m around Michael, the heat seems a bit more tolerable, _especially_ when his horrible fashion sense lightens my mood. However, today he’s just wearing a ratty tank top thing, basketball shorts, and those dinosaur _Converse_ that don’t go with anything he owns. What a dork.

 _My_ dork.

Skipping along the pavement, I narrowly avoid cracks and broken cement, snorting every time Michael pulls on my arm to slow me down. “Still so early,” he whines behind me, tugging on my arm and pulling me back mid-jump. 

“Unfortunate,” I mock him, sticking out my lower lip and shifting my gaze to his face. “You’ve given yourself the sugar daddy title, so now it’s time to step up. Tomorrow’s your last day, though, so we can finally start sleeping in on days other than the weekend.” Michael rolls his eyes and shrugs, readjusting his grip on my hand. “Well, tomorrow’s Friday, so I’m gonna sleep in on Saturday and Sunday, and then you start school on a Friday for some reason. I don’t start until the sixteenth,” he points out, sighing at my fast-approaching school year. 

I don’t blame him, if I’m being honest; I’m not all that thrilled about going back to school, either. The best thing about school is the structure, how I always know what class I’ll have and who I’ll be having it with and which homework is due when and when tests and quizzes are scheduled.

However, the trade-off is my lack of free time and my overly-stressed attitude, which exists throughout the year and only settles the second week of summer. 

“Good point. You have a while until school starts, so that’s nice,” I comment idly, eyes studying the sidewalk. “How much homework do you usually have?” Michael hums and swings our arms, then runs his left hand through his hair thoughtfully. “Not a lot. Senior year shouldn’t be too awful, either. I don’t have as many classes, but I’m taking an online college class or two to get credit for easy classes.

”Should be interesting, I guess,” Michael continues, taking a deep breath and letting go of my hand. I look up and notice that we’re at the cart, and Michael unzips the large grey covering over the stand and folds it up. “Don’t forget that we have that party on Saturday.”

Grimacing, I recall my phone call with Christine from Tuesday. 

_“Jeremy Heere!” Christine sings, voice piercing my ears and making my speaker buzz. I wince and pull the phone away from my ear momentarily, waiting for her voice to die down a bit._

_“What?”_

_“Wow, great way to greet your best friend.” Michael plants a soft kiss on my head as he passes behind the couch to get something from the fridge._

_“What’s the occasion?”_

_“You, me, everyone, party before school starts. Back-to-school party. Jake’s throwing one at his house and he invited you and said to bring as many people as you can. So I’ll tell him he can expect one more person.”_

_“I didn’t even say I was coming.”_

_”One more person.”_

_”Two.”_

_Christine laughs breathily from the other end. “You can’t bring your right hand as a date, Jere.”_

_“My right hand has a name now, and it’s Michael.”_

_“Right, I forgot about him. Okay, he doesn’t even go to school,” Christine mentions incredulously, voice high and wavering slightly. “But–“_

_I growl lowly and switch the phone to my other ear, tired of this dumb rivalry going on between Michael and Christine. “He’s my boyfriend whether you like it or not, Christine, and I’m not gonna sit here and let you talk shit about him! Sorry that you aren’t the only person I care about anymore, and sorry that other people are allowed to care about me, too.”_

_Christine goes silent, and I immediately feel bad. She didn’t deserve that, and I open my mouth to apologize, cut off by her continued dialogue._

_“But,” she continues like I didn’t just reprimand her for making fun of Michael, “if it takes bringing him to get you to come to a party, then he can come. Bye Jere.”_

Not a great call, and it completely ruined my day, but after calling Christine back and apologizing for my attitude, things got a bit better. So now, Michael and I have a party to go to, and there’s going to be hundred of kids, knowing Jake, and no adult supervision. That’s great. 

And my best friend’s jealous of my boyfriend, vis versa, so that’s great, too. 

I shouldn’t be complaining, really; the coolest kid in  _Middle Borough_ invited me to a party, and I actually have someone to come along with me. I won’t be that loser rolling into a party in his dad’s minivan anymore, even though that was only once to the homecoming dance last year. I ended up walking home just out of sheer embarrassment, but I don’t have to worry about that. Now I get to go to the party in my boyfriend’s shitty car. 

Now that I think about it, if _I_ had a beat-up car like Michael’s, he’d probably paint it up or just buy me a whole new one. That makes me feel bad, and I wouldn’t let him, but I can’t afford to improve the state of Michael’s car. It’s weird that Michael’s family has all this money, but that they don’t use it to fix things like his car. 

“You good?” Michael’s concerned voice cuts across my thoughts, deep and full of sincerity. “Looking pale, but we’re in the sun, so you should be bright red.”

 _Now_ I am. 

“Yeah,” I manage, gazing down at my planted feet. “Thinkin’.” 

Michael hums as he ties his apron blindly, fingers nimble and practiced. “About what?” 

“Why your car isn’t in the best shape.” 

Unlocking the ice cream freezer’s latch, Michael chuckles to himself. “Damn, Jere. That hurt,” he jokes, dropping his keys back into his apron’s pocket. “Embarrassed?”

Yes. “Nope, just curious.” 

Michael gives me an amused look and sighs, leaning against the counter. “Because I think it looks cool like that, all old and paint chipped and seats cracked. Reminds me that not everything has to be perfect to be perfectly fine. Deep, edgy, I know, but it’s true, if you think about it.” 

“What does that even mean?”

”Well, example, sometimes I mess up when I play. Doesn’t make the piece awful, it just isn’t perfect. But it’s perfectly fine. You have some issues, but that doesn’t make you a horribly damaged individual. Just a little rough around the edges. How people are meant to be,” Michael explains lowly, head tilted against his outstretched hand. 

Hanging off of each word, I drop a bit when Michael finishes his explanation, shoving my hands into my pockets. Damn, my boyfriend’s basically Socrates. 

“Oh,” I reply dumbly, heat numbing my senses as I walk to lean against the cart across from Michael. “That makes sense, I guess. Ridiculously poetic, babe.” 

Michael starts laughing, eyes catching the sun under his visor. I squint at him and try to remember something funny I said. I can’t. “What?”

”’Babe?’” he repeats while rolling his eyes, crossing his arms on the metal of the stand. “I love you, Jeremiah Heere. Never change. Want something to eat or drink?” I purse my lips and sigh to myself, disappointed in my lack of bilingual creativity when it comes to nicknames. I could call him some stupid French word and he’d never actually know what it means if I don’t tell him the truth. 

“Vanilla milkshake, _mon canard_ ,” I trill, suddenly very confident because my pronunciation is actually okay. Michael makes a face, but any confusion is quickly masked by a soft blush, pink tinting his skin and washing over his dark features. 

Without saying a word, he falls back into practiced habit, eyeing the ice as he scoops it out and pours it into the blender. I grin as I remember my first day at _Tastyland_ , stuttering and oblivious. Steadfastly heterosexual. How cute was I?

Not very, but it’s insane that I spent so long ignoring my feelings for Michael, playing them off and putting them off rather then coming to terms with them. 

“Don’t melt your shake before you finish it, hot stuff,” Michael cooes, still red. “What’d you call me?”

” _Mon canard_.” 

Michael giggles uncharacteristically. “What does that mean? It sounds pretty.” 

Thinking quick as I lean down to take a sip of my milkshake, I innocently lie, “My carnation, or my flower. Work for you?” Nodding with a huge smile, Michael puts away the ice scoop, leaning on his elbows. “Pretty hot today, huh?” he teases me, bringing a hand down to mine. I tap my finger expectantly, gazing at our hands. I remember always cherishing those moments where Michael’s finger would brush against mine, or where he’d look at my lips or my hair or my hands with that look in his eyes. 

I can’t believe I’m dating the same guy who used that shitty pick up line on me pretty much every day of the summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations  
> mon canard - my duck


	62. August 1 - Part 1

If I’m being honest, I’ve never been a huge fan of parties. 

I can remember attending classmates’ birthday parties back in elementary school, where they’d all play in the slides at _Chuck E. Cheese’s_ or splash around at the splash pad to celebrate.

I can also remember young Jeremy sitting by himself, forced by his mother to go so they he could make friends and get to know the his peers outside of school. 

So it’s easy to understand why I was never a huge fan of parties. Plus, in every high school movie I’ve ever watched, parties have been _grossly_ over-exaggerated, and though I can’t exactly speak for real high school parties, I’m sure that they’re nothing like those portrayed by actors and actresses in their early thirties. 

I’ve never actually been to a high school party. There was a Halloween party last year at Jake’s house, but I didn’t go because I got too sick. However, people made sure to tell me how amazing it was and how I should’ve been there, which was an experience in itself. 

“I know that look, what’s up?” Michael asks as he rolls up the sleeves of his oxford over his pullover sleeves. I glance up at his dim figure warily, sighing inwardly before forcing myself to smile.

Just because I’m afraid I won’t have a good time doesn’t mean that I should ruin Michael’s. 

“Nothin’,” I reply brightly, focusing on my reflection in my bathroom mirror as I run a hand through my unruly hair. “Excited.” I bare my teeth at mirror-Jeremy and check my teeth for bits of food. I hear Michael huff quietly and then feel him drape his arms around my waist, resting against my partially-exposed stomach and surprising me because his hands are freezing cold. 

“Michael!” 

Michael chuckles and presses his body flush against mine, resting his chin in the crook of my neck and meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Jere, really. Are you nervous? I know that that jazz party thing we went to wasn’t the same thing as a _real_ party or whatever, but you don’t need to worry,” he assures me smoothly, fingers fiddling with the hem of my sweater. “I’ll be with you the entire time.” 

I grin softly, shrugging as I search Michael’s lidded eyes. _He’s_ not nervous, yet he doesn’t really know anyone who’s going to be at this thing. 

How is that even fair? 

I go to school with the kids that are going to be there, yet I’m seriously considering falling ill again, or at least pretending to. Michael’s presence is calming, though, so I find myself melting against him as his hands continue pressing against my hot skin. 

“Not nervous,” I lie, leaning back against Michael. “I told you, I’m just excited.”

”Jere...”

”Michael!” 

“Jeremy, come on, _mahal_. You can tell me anything,” Michael pleads, bringing a finger up to my chin and tilting my head up to meet his eyes in the mirror. I swallow hard as my eyes grow dry at the sight of his concerned face, creasing slightly as his eyebrows turn over. 

I can’t keep anything from this boy. 

Pulling my lips tautly over my teeth, my eyes flicker back to my hands, which are gripping the counter so hard that they’re shaking. I lift my hands and notice a soft, thudding pain against my temple. 

Anxiety headache, wonderful. 

“I don’t like parties,” I admit slowly, mumbling hoarsely. Michael doesn’t need to be burdened with my issues yet again, especially because I worry about the dumbest shit. “But it’s fine, you’re right. I shouldn’t worry.” 

I try to back up so that I can go get my shoes on, but Michael pushes me back against the counter, counter digging into my hipbones. 

God, my stupid fucking brain.

Bright red and overly aware of Michael’s hand placement, I avoid his gaze, instead focusing on the sink faucet. “Jeremy, your feelings are valid,” Michael mutters, lifting my head again. I continue avoiding eye contact, my mind focused on something other than this party. 

“W-Well,” I start, not sure where I’m going with my dialogue but grateful when Michael finally sighs and pushes back, fingers tapping against my waistband. 

“You scared about seeing Christine? You didn’t leave on such great terms, and I know you, like, called after that, but still,” Michael probes, tilting his head slightly. How can I lie to a face like that? Part of me feels naseous, especially because I hate lying and I seem to do a lot of it. 

I have good cause, though, right? 

In a rushed moment of nerves and irritation and frustration, I turn on my heel and pull Michael down by his collar, smashing my lips against his own painfully but not caring whether or not the hot tears forming in my eyes are because of the impact or my anxiety. 

Surprised, Michael doesn’t have much time to readjust before I start shaking and pulling him closer, unable to get enough of him. 

School starts in a week. I have unresolved problems with Christine. The community theatre play opens this week. I have a party to fill the position of very uncool wallflower at. I’m not sure how much longer Michael can put up with me. I’m tired of overthinking everything. I want to stop thinking. 

“Jeremy.”

God, this is pathetic. I’m kissing my _boyfriend_ to drown my anxieties instead of actually coping. This is just a temporary stress-reliever. 

“Jeremy?”

To top that off, my dad and I are still fairly awkward. He’s having a tough time adjusting to my “new life,” as he calls it whenever I happen to see him, which isn’t so often nowadays. At first, he was so happy I was out of the house all the time. Now? 

“Jeremy!” 

Now he’s just bothered by my absence. 

“ _JEREMY!_ ” 

Choking on air, my vision realigns, my head throbbing sharply as I blink away my tears. I can barley make out Michael’s facial features as I sniffle and swallow a sob, Michael’s sleeves gripped tightly in each of my fists as I freak out. Again. 

”Jeremy, hey, hey,” Michael hushes me, pulling me against his chest and tanging his fingers in my hair, pulling softly as he works his digits through the knotted strands. “Honey, _cielito_ , you’re okay, it’s okay. Deep breaths.”

”I’m s-so-orry-y,” I manage, voice forced and wet. “I’m su-uch a-a-a bu-urden-n.” What am I even saying? “I’m so-so-o tired of thi-inkin-n-ng. It wo-on’t stop, Michael. Make it – _Mi-ichael_ – make it sto-op.” I stop trying to push down my cries, instead letting them slip out irregularly, interrupted by my heavy breathing. I can’t believe I’m having a breakdown right before a party.

Face burrowed in the fabric of Michael’s pullover, I shake in his grip, pulling frantically at his shirt as I try to ground myself. I’m not even thinking as I choke on my words, Michael’s soft shushing the only thing on my mind. 

“Jeremy, baby,” Michael cooes against my ear, breath cool against my tear-streaked cheeks. “It’s alright. You’re fine, it’s alright. I know you’re scared, but–“

”N-No!”

I pull back and pull at my eyes irritably, fingernails scratching lightly at my eyelids and driving me insane. I feel so trapped. My skin is too tight, I can’t breathe. 

“It’s just a party–“

”Michael, it’s no-o-ot just the par- the party!” I scream, glad that my dad isn’t home. He’s out at some business dinner. “It’s not, it’s not just the–“

Unable to form a complete sentence, I angrily wipe at my eyes, regaining cognitive function as I do. I flash my eyes up to Michael’s horrified, offended expression, eyes darkened and brows furrowed slightly. 

Before I can even form an apology, Michael looks up and past me, looking at his reflection and cooling down before he says something he may regret. 

“Michael–“

”I’m sorry,” Michael interrupts curtly, eyes traveling back to me slowly. I shrink under his gaze, biting the inside of my cheek as the guilt floods my conscience. Jesus Christ, I’m such a mess. “I’m sorry I don’t understand what’s happening with you. I’m sorry I just don’t get it, okay? Sorry I tried to help. Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Typical of myself and true to my character. 

I feel a tear slip down my cheek, hurriedly using my shoulder to wipe it away. “I–“

”You ready?”

What? “What?” 

Michael sighs and looks down at his feet, uncertain for once. “I asked if you’re ready. Let’s go.” 

I always manage to fuck these up, and this all answers my previous question: How much longer can Michael put up with me? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so close to finishing this,, i’ll try to post a few chapters tonight! thanks for keeping up


	63. August 1 - Part 2

“And I j-nust can’t even–“ I sniffle hard, leaning forward and propping my head up against my hands. “I just can’t even, like, you _know_.” 

Something about my buzzing body and inability to think straight tells me that I’ve drank a bit too much. 

I didn’t come to the party with the intention of getting drunk, nor did I even want to drink period. However, after Michael left me to take a call from his mother, I had no other way to cope with all of my anxiety. 

And now the tension between Michael and I. 

I’ve never been drunk before, so I can’t even tell whether or not I actually am. I can barely make out whoever I’m talking to’s face, though I think it might be Brooke because a girl with dark hair is draped across her lap lazily. 

Brooke or whoever hasn’t been drinking. 

“‘Nd I’m just so _sick_ of it,” I slur, taking another swig of whatever was put into my cup earlier. It burns my throat as it tears through my skin, but at least I’m feeling something other than this uncomfortable static. “He doesn’t even get it, y’unno? Just needs to listen!” 

I pause tiredly.

”No, _I_ gotta talk,” I realize slowly, sitting up and dropping my cup to the ground, the plastic clattering as I cross my arms. 

The girl hums as she nods to the beat of the music, bass too loud and shaking the entire house. “Just do it, man,” she agrees roughly, voice nothing like Brooke’s at all.

Is Brooke even at this party? 

“Yeah, I do,” I start, clapping my hands together decisively. “Just gotta find him fir-rst.” Choking on my words and feeling a warm lump get caught in my throat, I swallow hard, pressing a hand against my mouth expectantly. “M-Michael.” 

Unsteadily, I roll to my feet, swaying on the spot before I force myself to walk blindly towards the cluster of people in the Dillingers’ living room. Everything is too loud. My head is pulsating to the rhythm of this new song. I don’t know where Michael is. 

“Have... Have you seen my b-boyfriend?” I ask obnoxiously to the person at my right, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against me. “Gotta tell him about my, uh, my problem? My problem.” 

I’m sure that he gives me a weird look, though all he does is shove me away and deeper into the crowd. 

Irritably, I swipe at my eyes. If I were Michael, where would I be? 

“Jeremy?” a soft voice comes across to me, concerned and uncertain. I turn towards the voice and look down at Rich, who has a cup in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. “You good, man?” 

No, I’m probably not. “Uh, _duh_ ,” I belt, squinting at him as I place a hand on his shoulder. “‘Course, _Lipsy_ Boy.” I probably mean “lispy,” but it doesn’t matter. “Where’s my... Where’s _mon canard_? Where’s my duck? I need to talk.” I hiccup and almost gag at how awful my mouth tastes, swaying before Rich steadies me with his arm. 

“Oh, hey, let’th find Michael,” Rich suggests above the roar of the crowd as someone finishes a keg-stand, and before I can really comprehend what’s happening, Rich is dragging me through the first story of Jake’s house in search of Michael. 

People don’t care if they bump into you at a party, which is something that’s incredibly hard for me to understand. Why aren’t they apologizing? I’m muttering as many apologies as I can as Rich weaves through the sweaty teenagers, careless and determined. “Where’th he at? Oh, there’th Chrithtine, the may know... Chrithtine!” 

Oh God, Christine. 

A shorter girl on a couch turns to look up at Rich and I, her face falling in disgust as she looks me up and down. “Oh,” is all she says before turning back around, but Rich taps her shoulder again and points at me. 

“Where’th Michael? He’th really fucked up,” Rich comments loudly, pulling at my arm as I blink away my momentary confusion. 

Christine seems to turn over the idea in her head, finally sighing and pushing herself up to her feet. “Fine,” she grumbles, grabbing my arm and pulling me from Rich. “I may have seen him walk outside.” 

Rich claps my shoulder before kissing Christine’s cheek, then turns and returns to the party. 

I can’t even remember why Christine’s mad at me right now, which makes our silence way more awkward. 

“I know you’re, like, drunk off your ass right now, so you won’t understand any of this,” Christine mutters above the dying noise of the crowd as we head to the back door, “but I can’t believe you... I can’t believe you really, like, brought that up, Jeremy. What a dick move.” 

“Huh?” 

Christine rolls her eyes and yanks me along. “Saying that I’m jealous of Michael. That I’m in a rivalry with him, which I’m not. You think I’m this possessive, horrible, awful friend. You make me out to be so terrible, Jeremy. I’m just your best friend, Jere”. 

As much as I’d like to fully understand everything she’s saying, I can’t help but feel that buzzing sensation wearing off slightly. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still drunk, I’m sure, but it’s not as bad. I’m more numb than anything. 

“And you find something new and shiny and leave me behind,” Christine’s voice is louder now, and I can hear her tearful expression in her breaking voice. “You just pretend like I don’t exist. We hung out, like, three times this summer. I was there for you, and you abandoned me for some–“ 

I blink hard as we exit through the back door, the cool night wind rushing against my skin as Christine slides the door shut behind us. 

“Michael,” Christine managed after a moment of hesitation, and I see something shift under the porch light to my left. Christine lets go of my shirt sleeve and waits for the person – Michael, I’m guessing – to come collect me. If I were sober, I’m sure I’d be utterly embarrassed. 

“Hey, Chris,” Michael mumbles as he joins us near the door, hands shoved in his pockets awkwardly. “You, uh, look nice.” 

Christine just sighs and goes to leave, but I find myself jutting my hand out to grab her jacket sleeve, frantic. She quickly turns to give me an angry look, though it softens once she realizes how genuine my expression is. 

Drunk Jeremy is even worse at articulating his feelings than sober Jeremy, apparently. “You’re right, y’know,” I utter quickly, words dripping together in the pool of my dialogue. “It’s not fair, how I t-treat n’you like you don’t exist. You, like, you’re like my best friend. Don’t leave... Don’t leave me.”

From the orange glow of the patio light, I can see Christine’s face brighten slightly, her eyes bent happily though sadly at the same time. 

“Yeah,” she groans, scratching the back of her neck. “Get him home safe,” to Michael, and to me, “Goodnight, Jere.” 

With that, Christine slips back into the house, leaving Michael and I by ourselves on the back porch. At a party. And I’m drunk. 

“We should probably get you home,” Michael notes softly, arm around my waist as he walks me to the edge of the cement. However, I nail myself to my stance, shaking my head profusely. “No, gotta apologize,” I insist, pushing him away. 

Michael sighs and looks around, then pulls me down as he drops to the floor. We sit across from each other for a few silent moments, Michael’s hands in my own as I run my fingers through his thoughtfully. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Michael finally says in an undertone, and I flash my eyes up to meet his. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad. I know you get worried, and I should know how to deal with it. It just makes me mad that I don’t know how. That I can’t help. That I make it worse.” 

My mind still buzzingly numb, I hum quietly, eyes back at Michael’s hands. 

“You do-on’t have to know how,” I piece together, wishing I hadn’t drank anything. This would have been a lot more sincere if I were sober. “You’re ‘nough, got it? It’s hard. It’s really, really hard.” 

Okay, I’m starting to cry I guess. 

“Michael, it’s just really hard,” I start to cry, voice shrill. Michael hushes me and inches closer, pulling me against him and running his fingers through my hair gently. 

I don’t deserve him, and even drunk me knows that. After all this shit I’ve put him through – piano, confused sexual identity, financial stress, my stupid worrying, everything – he’s still here. Why is he still here? 

“I know it is,” Michael whispers, and the door vibrates quietly against its frame as the party inside gets louder, but it’s all very distant. I feel myself getting tired, eyes wet with tears and lids falling heavily. 

“I know it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that these chapters are short, but two more and this is over!! i’ll miss this fic


	64. August 7 - Epilogue

_The past few days have been some of the most important in my relationship with both Christine and Michael, I feel._

_In terms of my friendship with Christine, we’re trying to spend more time together, working hard to patch up any broken parts. We’ve acknowledged that things need to change a bit, especially since Christine admitted that she’s tired of me pretending like she doesn’t exist, like she’s not important to me._

_Which she is._

_An even more broken relationship is my relationship with Michael, which now exists on a foundation of full disclosure and not hiding how I feel. Ever. That was the deal._

_I’m honestly thrilled that I got all of this resolved before my play tonight, because standing and waiting for the director to call places is the only thought my mind is able to handle at the moment. I shouldn’t be nervous, especially since there are probably, like, four people in the audience, but I’m still scared._

_What if I mess up my lines? What if I forget everything? What if I speak before I should? What if I trip? What if–_

_“Places!”_

_I feel a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly as the person passes. “Look alive, Jere. You got a play to star in,” Christine encourages me, and I chuckle nervously as I clamber to my feet._

_If Christine can be confident and calm, then so can I._

_With shaky legs, I take a breath and follow Christine to the curtains, peaking out past the fabric at Michael, who’s sitting next to Jenna and Brooke and talking as he shifts a bouquet from one hand to another._

_Red roses. Twelve of them. Just like that night I first heard him play piano._

_I huff a laugh and fold my eyes, biting my bottom lip softly. I watch Michael tilt his head as he explains one thing or another, passionate about whatever it is._

_I close my eyes as I remember every day I spent with Michael this summer, realizing that there have actually been a lot. I visited him for a while at an ice cream stand, unaware of my affection until later on. I went to watch him play piano so many times, traveling far and spending a lot of money on taxi rides most times._

_My fingers fiddle with my ring idly as I recall my summer, and I smile to myself as Michael sits back in his chair at the dimming of the lights._

_I’m going to do fine._

_Michael’s here, and I’m going to do fine._

”And that’s what you do if a kid tries to sell you bath salts. Remember, they’re not the epsom salt things you put in your tub to relax, Jere. They’re _drugs_ , okay? Remember, strike and run. Hit ‘em where it hurts,” Michael’s voice interrupts my recollection of two days ago, my vision returning to reality rather than a blur of the fifth of August. 

I nervously chuckle as I adjust my sitting, hand clasped around Michael’s. “Yeah, I know that,” I snort, rolling my eyes. “How dumb do you think I am?” 

Michael hums thoughtfully, and I gasp in feigned offense and smack his arm playfully. “You dick.”

”You are what you eat,” Michael agrees, inclining his head slightly. “Damn, this traffic is awful. No wonder you don’t wanna learn to drive. What’s the use?” I pick my head up and glance out the window, noticing the lines of cars stacked up behind each other uniformly, impatiently edging forward as the traffic guard directs the flow of cars on their way to work or school. 

I can’t believe Michael volunteered to drive me to school this morning. 

Every year at my school, we have a sort of senior parade thing, where seniors drive by in their cars and lowerclassmen watch and wave as we honk and play our music way too loud. Christine offered to drive me, but after a heated but fair argument, they decided that Michael would drive me, and so we spent yesterday decorating his car with window markers to celebrate my senior year. 

I also made Michael write his name, and students won’t care enough to make it out anyways. 

“Right? It’s ridiculous,” I agree, rolling Michael’s knuckles between my thumb and hand. “At least three wrecks a month, I think. The drive home is even worse, honestly. Plus, this is mainly just first day stuff. People are confused.” 

Michael makes an understanding noise as he inches forward, grumbling a few choice words as a car attempts to merge in front of him. “Dumbass, there’s no room to even merge! Get back in your fucking lane!” he murmurs angrily, throwing a questioning hand up as the car crosses lanes partway anyways. “God, I hate public school. This is awful.” 

“Now you understand my pain,” I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes and leaning back into the car seat. “Welcome to my world.” 

“Shut up, _mon canard_ ,” Michael retorts bitterly, but his attitude shifts quickly at that. “Which, by the way, I looked that up, and it doesn’t mean ‘flower’ or whatever. You called me a fucking ‘duck’ and expected to get away with it, you nerd. God, _te amo_.” 

My stomach turns over at that, but I laugh anyways. “You’re smart, congratulations on totally butchering that word,” I tease Michael, grinning as he shoves me slightly. The line finally moves forward at a steadier rate, and within two minutes, Michael and I are turning down the main drag that rounds my school. 

“You ready?” Michael asks with an excited smirk, and before I can even answer, he rolls down our windows, hollering as students lining the road screech and whoop at every passing car, not knowing nor caring who’s inside. 

Embarrassed, I sink back in my chair, watching the kids anxiously. However, Michael tightens his grip on my hand, honking his horn and letting the car drift a bit to the side. “ _Cielito_ , it’s fine. Senior year! This is the last time you’ll ever be in high school. Start off strong, _mahal_.” 

I hesitantly smile, leaning up to kiss Michael’s cheek before looking back out the window. Some kid points at our car, cheering loudly and pumping his fist. I don’t even know him, but I find myself yelling back, leaning over to honk Michael’s horn. This is what Michael does to me, honestly. 

A car behind us honks the same rhythm that I just did, so I honk again, laughing as I get caught up in the moment. 

This is actually a lot of fun, and I feel like I have Michael to thank for that. 

We follow the line of cars pulling into the senior parking lot, which looks so much nicer this year than it did last year. Michael looks around and pulls into an empty spot, still laughing and sharing my momentary joy before I can replace it with general anxiety and uncertainty. 

“Senior year,” I comment breathlessly, watching Michael as he shifts the car into park and looks over at me. 

“Senior year.” 

I don’t let my grin falter as Michael takes my hands in his own, nodding surely. “God, you’ve grown so much since the beginning of summer, Mr. ‘No Homo Heere.’ I love you so much.” He runs his thumb along the metal of my ring, face soft and eyes glowing in the morning sun.

I chuckle and nod, shrugging. He’s right; I really have grown. I’ve grown to be a lot more accepting of myself, and now I know that I have friends, that I’m lovable, that I have people who love me. And that means that I can love myself. 

From a distance, I can make out Christine, Rich, Jake, and Jenna, waving at us and motioning for me to join them over at one of the benches outside the main building. Hesitantly, I look back at Michael, face waiting but patient. I would  stare at him all day if I could. 

“I think your friends are waiting for you,” Michael points out, grinning. “Go.” 

Laughing to myself, I press my lips against Michael’s, letting them linger for a bit before pulling back and picking up my backpack. I throw my door open and close it, eyes glued to Michael’s before I wave and turn around. 

This has been one of those summers that kids brag about when they get back to school and have to write essays about their summer break whereabouts, what they did, who they spent their break with. I may not have a sob story to tell, and I didn’t go on a cruise, and I didn’t visit China or something, but I’ve had the best summer of my entire life, and I owe that all to Michael. 

Michael, the homeschooled _Tastyland_ employee, the piano prodigy, the sew-on patch enthusiast. 

“Hey!” Michael calls from his beat up car, window still rolled down as he peers from it and at me as I make my way towards my friends. I spin on my heel and continue walking, though backwards now. 

_It’s slow, but it’s fast._

“What?” I call back, my giddy mood leaking into my voice as I continue blindly backing up. 

_It’s quiet, but it’s loud_

Michael pauses before shouting back, “Don’t melt your shake before you finish it, hot stuff!” 

_It seems like he’s getting louder with every note, until he plays the measure again and it gets quieter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god,, wow!! sorry that i closed it off on this chapter instead of separating it into two, but i just think it was a good place to end!! 
> 
> i can’t believe all the love and support that this fic has gotten, and you have no idea how many friends ive made bc of it and what an outlet this has been for me.
> 
> ik that it’s been a rollercoaster of drama and very all over the place, but if you’ve made it this far, dang!! i love you!! 
> 
> thanks so much to connor for giving me this prompt, and thank you to everyone who’s read it. i love you all, and you can find me on instagram @heereandqueere

**Author's Note:**

> okay a few notes 
> 
> i love love LOVE this prompt and i’m literally so excited!! 
> 
> also my other fic (it hurts to breathe) will continue to be updated, but i needed a break! i love connor for this amazing prompt 
> 
> ++ this takes place in pennsylvania, where there’s actually an ice cream place called tastyland (don’t sue me please) 
> 
> just to fill you in, michael and jeremy have never met, there’s no squip, and this is so loosely based on the musical/novel but i love it to bits ugh


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